Foggy London
by BlooMist
Summary: John gets home after a very nasty day and finds Sherlock particularly moody. After almost a week without decent sleep, John starts to question himself about some weird, lusty feelings towards the world's only Consulting Detective.
1. A Very Bad Day

**Chapter 1: A Very Bad Day**

After seeing his last patient, Doctor John Watson started to tidy up his desk, putting away the gadgets and thingies doctors use to do their business. He put on his black leather jacket and slid his hand inside the pockets, confirming the presence of keys and phone before leaving. For the tenth time that day, John heard a buzzing sound from inside the same pocket. He picked up the phone and pressed _read_.

_Did I mention imminent danger?_

–_SH_

John sighed and put his phone back in the pocket. _Yes, yes you did, more than once, actually._ John mumbled taking one last look at the office, making sure he didn't leave anything behind. Then he closed the office door and walked away.

"Have a nice weekend, Miss Campbell," he said to a passing nurse.

"See you on Monday, Doctor Watson," she replied with a polite smile.

Stepping outside the clinic's door was like diving into the cold waters of the Thames. A slicing breeze made its way past the thick fabric of his coat right to his naked neck, making him shiver. He pulled his collar up trying to protect his skin and started walking towards the main road, hoping to get a cab before he froze. His shoulder started to bother him, but John tried to ignore the pain and put on his best military face. Again he felt the gadget on his pocket buzzing.

_I see blood in our future._

–_SH_

John resisted the urge to growl and jump around like a chimp in a cage. Instead he tilted his head back and took several deep breaths. Furiously, he put away his phone and started walking again.

"It's Friday evening! It's a bloody _cold_ Friday evening! Of course I am not going to be able to grab a damn cab!" he roared in frustration.

Oh yes. John Watson was frustrated and tired, mostly because of his childish, selfish and impossibly annoying flatmate. On the other hand, he loved when the same flatmate saved him from the boredom of a general clinic doctor's life. The man was a pain in the butt, but he sure knew how to spike life up. Nevertheless, John was pissed.

When making his way down the street, a door to a pub opened, filling him with the warmth and comfort of the room. But even that comfort came to an end as soon as the same door closed, taking with it all the warmth and John stopped briefly to look through the window, envying those who were safe from the slicing cold, there where the familiar ambient and the warm cosiness were so inviting. Another buzz brought his attention back to the painful reality.

_I'm not getting any younger here._

–_SH_

"Okay, that's it," John growled, tapping the small buttons feverishly in a reply.

_Go to hell._

–_FU_

He pressed _send_ and as soon as he did so, he regretted it. _Maybe that was a little too harsh_, John thought. Leaving the sight of the cosy pub behind, he stared walking again, occasionally looking back, to see if his luck on getting a cab would change. A motorbike entered the street, passing on a pool, showering the doctor with muddy cold water. And that was the last straw.

"Well fuck you very much! This is just great! Perfect!" he shouted furiously at the lousy driver. "I hope you fall off and break your neck!" _Well actually no, I don't._

He sighed loudly and ran a hand through his wet sandy-blonde hair. The wind was a thousand times colder and it seemed to penetrate through the fabrics covering his body and even through his thick layer of flesh, slicing his bones. He saw a cab appear in the corner and shook his hand so vividly that it almost seemed to him that it was going to jump off or something.

"Oh, thanks God," John muttered. But as soon as the cabbie pulled over, he saw, much to his fury, that it wasn't for him.

He swore furiously as a pregnant woman and her respective husband climbed to _his _taxi. _Damn my luck!_ _Sherlock is so going to pay for all of this later!_ He cursed. Oh, yes. He blamed Sherlock for his unfortunate day. You see, usually the detective would solve his cases with nicotine patches, or talking to the skull (that John had to beg Mrs Hudson to return to Sherlock), or by playing – what am I saying – assassinating the meaning of music – that's more like it – with his violin. Recently Sherlock felt like that was not enough. Of course, being the selfish, stubborn five year old child that Sherlock was, his patience level was only so limited. After a day of boredom and a sudden attack of the ITTSS (Incapacity to Think Straight Syndrome), the detective decided to occupy his time by blowing up the kitchen, scrapping the walls with black ink (which John cleansed afterwards, to avoid any more extended rent bills), shooting the same walls and, John's favourite, murdering the violin during the night. Yes, those precious hours when John Watson should be resting so he could be minimally sane the next day when cutting live bodies open, were spent very awake, as the poor violin screamed for mercy downstairs. So now John felt like a walking dead. With no rest, no cab and frozen to the bones. His famous everlasting patience was starting to wear thin... Oh so thin.

He started, once again, walking down the road almost automatically. He had completely lost faith in grabbing a cab by now and even if his luck changed, it would be of no use now that he was so close to home. When the doctor thought that his nose was about to fall, he started to see the so familiar buildings of Baker Street. He tried to smile, tough he couldn't be sure if he actually managed to do it, so numb was his face. He accelerated his steps, but of course his face wasn't the only part of his body that was numb and somehow he managed to trip on his own feet and fall to the ground. Once again he swore out loud and cursed his flatmate. Getting up, he managed to awkwardly limp to the door.

Looking for his keys inside his pocket with very shaky hands, John wished to get home as quickly as possible. All he wanted was a hot boiling bath, a nice hot cuppa and the comfort of his flannel night wear. It took him two tries to put the key inside the locker and as soon as he entered in 221B he felt the warmth come back to his body. Still, his shoulder was hurting him a lot. _Damn bullet_. He worked his way upstairs and entered his flat, taking off the wet jacket and tossing it aside.

"Ah, John! I was starting to think you got lost," a deep baritone voice said.

John rolled his eyes and walked towards the bathroom. He let the hot water pour, filling the tub. As the bathtub filled up, John returned to the sitting room and leaned against the kitchen doorframe, looking at the man that was lying on the couch.

"What is it you want?" John asked.

"I liked that 'FU' signature. I have to admit I found it quite amusing."

"Sherlock–"

"My pen, John. It's on the coffee table. I need it."

John looked at the table, right besides the sofa and then he looked back at Sherlock. _So annoying! He just has to move his hand to get the damn pen! Such a lousy...Uh!_ He crossed the room and picked up the pen, handing it to _that bloody child_. The latter took it without as much as a 'thank you'.

Oh, yes. That was Sherlock Holmes. Manners weren't definitely his priority. Well, nothing that involved a polite exchange of words was in fact his priority. Let's just say that socializing was... uh... not his thing?

John returned to the bathroom and dipped his cold body inside the hot water. Instantly his shoulder stopped hurting and he smiled (feeling it this time), leaning his head back against the tub border. _What an odd day,_ he thought as he closed his eyes, appreciating the comfort and warmth of the clear water.

He cleared his mind of the terrible day he had. Falling down the bed, preparing a cuppa with spoiled milk, almost twisting his ankle when arriving to the surgery, dropping his lunch on the floor, hurting a patient with the stethoscope, falling from the chair, spilling really hot coffee in his shirt, freezing in the streets of London, receiving a wet muddy shower, losing a cab for some labouring woman, falling again... It was all stored in the bin folder of his brain now. Wait, _bin folder?_ Oh so now he was even thinking like Sherlock! That's just great. He scowled and tried to think of any positive aspects of the day. _I spared a few pounds from the taxi._ He smirked. _Yes, that's good enough for now._

The water was starting to cool and his fingertips were wrinkled, so John decided it would be enough of being underwater and got off the tub, wrapping a towel around his hips. After putting on his night wear, John headed to the kitchen and warmed up some water for tea.

"How's the case going?" John asked noticing Sherlock had sit up on the couch.

"Interesting." Sherlock replied looking at a couple of crime scene photographs. "Yet, there's something wrong. I just can't put my finger on it."

John put down a cup on the coffee table for Sherlock to drink, if he even noticed it.

"That's what you do, you figure out what's wrong."

Sherlock ignored his flatmate and focused his attention back on the photographs. John just sat in his armchair, sipping his coffee and staring at the hardworking detective. His blazing blue eyes flew from photo to photo, his palms pressed under his chin. After a while John simply forgot the reason he was so mad with him. Sure, the violin and the occasional explosions drove him up the walls, but it was all part of living with the great Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it? Would it be the same if Sherlock behaved like a rather normal human being? _I seriously doubt it. I'm not even sure Sherlock _knows_ how 'rather normal' human beings behave._

"Please John. I would very much appreciate if you stopped doing that," Sherlock muttered.

"Do what?"

"Thinking while I'm deducing! It's so highly distractive!"

"Oh, dear," John sighed and finished his tea. "I'm whacked. I think I'm going to bed now. Night." he said standing up.

"Hmm," Sherlock said as a response. _I feel like making noise now. Where did I put my violin?_

**...**

_This can't be happening. Not to me._ _Please let it not be happening._

John rolled over in his bed for what felt like the millionth time that night. He stretched his hand to the bedside table, turning the alarm clock to him. The bright crimson digits joyfully rubbed an infuriating 04:37 in the morning in John's sleepy face. He whined at the cruel, painful reality, as he suddenly remembered why he was so pissed at his flatmate.

He sat on his bed and scratched his head, wondering what he could do to shut the suffering violin downstairs. _It's not even music! It's making my ears bleed!_ He groaned again and got up. He searched for his navy blue robe in the darkness, slamming his foot in the chair by the desk.

"MOTHER F..." John yelped, stopping his words before the swearing came out. "Gosh, Sherlock, what you do to me," he cried.

_On the plus side, I found the robe._ He slid his arms inside the warm cloth and opened the door. As he did so, the notes the violin cried sounded like someone was killing a pig with a blazing iron. He slowly limped down the stairs and entered the sitting room, leaning against the doorframe.

"Sher—" he tried to call, but his rough voice broke. "Sherlock!" he tried again.

The man didn't even raise his head. His eyes were closed, as if he was playing the most beautiful serenade to a lover. Of course, if _that_ was a beautiful serenade, the lover would be deaf by now, if not even dead. John approached the hearth and sat on his favourite armchair, right in front of Sherlock.

"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well? I hope the violin didn't wake you," Sherlock asked in a very flat voice.

John scowled and counted to ten. "Yes, Sherlock. I was sleeping like a baby. I think I woke up with my own snores!"

Sherlock fluttered on eye open and gazed at John's figure before closing it again.

"Don't be silly, John. You don't snore," he said.

John widened his gaze at Sherlock. _How in the world does he know that I don't snore?_ He made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"Sherlock, please. _Please_, notice that I am begging here. Stop torturing the violin. _Please! _I really need to rest," John pleaded. "I can't even think straight anymore!"

For John's surprise, Sherlock snorted. "Oh, don't worry. If what you did before was _thinking_, than the difference isn't much."

For some reason the words didn't affect him. Well, thinking of it, John didn't even hear the words at all. He was too busy focusing on the way Sherlock's full bow shaped lips were moving. John shook his head, blaming the lack of sleep.

"Why don't you try and get some rest yourself?" he asked.

"Oh, John. You naïve, silly John. You know very well my feelings about sleeping," Sherlock said, running the bow against the strings again, making the wooden instrument screech. "Unlike you, I don't need to sleep to think. I do it better while awake."

"Well you've been _playing_ for a bloody long while now, so I'll assume that thinking is not being easy at the moment," John said.

"Indeed. There's something blocking my brain. It's so frustrating!" Sherlock suddenly parted the bow from the violin and put the instrument down.

John almost laughed with relief. "Sherlock, don't tell me you have a 'Consulting Detective's Block'."

Sherlock pouted and faced away from John.

"No! Really? There are no such things as 'Consulting Detective's Blocks' Sherlock!"

"Why not? I invented the job. I can add that to the job description if I want!"

If John didn't know any better, he could swear that Sherlock's wish right now was to stump his foot on the floor and throw a tantrum. Sometimes it was hard to believe that he was talking with a thirty-three year old man. Despite Sherlock's behaviour, John couldn't help but think it was adorable, in a very twisted kind of way. He smirked and leaned forwards.

"Listen, why don't you tell me about the case? You always say that talking out loud helps you think," John suggested.

Sherlock's eyes lit up as his lips curved up. "I already tried with the skull."

"How did that work?"

"It didn't, unfortunately."

"Maybe it will be different with me. I'll even let you mock me at my stupid interpretations, I promise," John said.

Sherlock nodded and got up, quickly making his way across the room, grabbing the photos on the coffee table and returning to his seat in front of John.

"Woman, early thirties, stabbed seven times in the chest and shot to the head. Latin American from Chile or Argentina. A tango dancer, judging by calluses on her feet and the kind of shoes she was wearing, she was a dancing instructor too, so Argentina it is. Left-handed, married for at least five to seven years to a Christian man." Sherlock said as if talking out loud would bring him some answers. "So what's with the Arabic message?" he bent his head down and his hands flew to his dark curls, ruffling them vigorously in frustration.

"A Christian man... is that important? How do you know?" John asked, knowing that sometimes responding to some questions helped Sherlock defeat the 'Consulting Detective's Block'.

"Yes, yes, a Christian man, please John use your brains. She has a gold necklace with a cross and Jesus in it. It had an engraving with some lame lettering that could only be a gift by her lover or husband. Look at her wedding ring, it's immaculate! That tells the marriage was going well, so husband it is. Cross, Jesus and gift by husband: married to a Christian man." he said. "Yes, it is important. I just don't know how yet." Sherlock said.

"Fant— never mind," John said.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked.

John took one long look at Sherlock's features, absorbing the image in his brain. _Very handsome fellow, he is._ Once again his eyes widened and he shook his head in an attempt to disperse his thoughts. Reluctantly he looked at the photos. _God, it's much too early to try to be Sherlock._

"Well, she's dead," John said, trying to hold a yawn.

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "Is that the best you can do? Focus, John!"

The doctor tried to see behind the obvious, looking at all details, trying to think like the detective. When he's head started to hurt, something flashed in his mind.

"She was a mother of twins and was pregnant with a third one," John said in a murmur.

Sherlock's blue gaze fixed the metallic grey eyes of the doctor in front of him.

"What?"

"Well, this judging by the photo, of course. I mean, I can't be sure, since I didn't actually _see_ the body. And I'm not you, so give me a break!" John said defensively, thinking he had gotten something wrong.

"No, John. It's not—" Sherlock leaned forward. "How can you tell that?"

John arched a brow. _This Consulting Detective's Block must really be powerful_.

"Well, it's just... her breasts."

"What about them?"

"They're swollen and barely fit in her dress. Her tummy is still flat though, so I would say six to eight weeks of gestation, nine at the most," John said yawning again. He really needed to sleep now.

"John..." Sherlock whispered.

"What? What did I get wrong?"

"How do you know about the twins?" Sherlock asked.

"Again, her breasts. She has severe stretch marks in her breasts and tummy. Only a first pregnancy would leave marks like those. Have you noticed the ones she has on her belly? It stretched a lot, so it had to be twins," John said.

"But how do you know it was twins and not just a big baby?" Sherlock asked anxiously.

John couldn't help but feel odd. It was obvious to him, at least to his medical him. How could _Sherlock_ not see it? Of all people! Was this how Sherlock felt all the freakin' time? _The roles are a bit reversed here. I don't think I like it that much._

"If it was a big baby, and judging by her petite frame, it would've had to come out by caesarean. But you don't see any marks or scars, or any evidence that points to a surgery, so twins, natural birth," John explained, leaning back on the couch and closing his eyes.

Sherlock was as speechless as he could get. His gaze flew from the pictures to the good doctor and something odd occurred in his stomach.

"What did I get wrong?" John babbled in a sleepy voice.

"I don't know."

Three words that rarely left his lips. Even John noticed that. Sherlock saw him sit up and lock their gazes. He loved that metallic grey tone of John's eyes. It felt so calming and safe.

"You don't know?" John asked incredibly.

"No, John. The _Block_, remember?"

His words weren't harsh. They were surprisingly soft and in that instant a part of John's heart melted. _What the bloody hell is wrong with me? One minute I want to strangle him and in the next I want to kiss the man! Wait _kiss_? That's so not the word I was looking for._ As his brain worked, his eyes started to shut and he felt his body slid in the armchair.

"John!"

The doctor flew his eyes opened as his heart raced from Sherlock's yelp.

"Don't do that," he mumbled trying to sound harsh, but failing miserably.

"The note," Sherlock said shoving the photo of the dead woman's note in his face. "Can you tell anything about the note?"

"Go look for its meaning in the internet!" John complained.

"My computer is off and yours is upstairs," Sherlock said. "You were in Afghanistan for quite a while. So maybe you know enough Arabic to decipher this!"

John rolled his eyes and tried to focus his blurry vision in the photograph. When his eyes were able to see only _one_ piece of paper, John snorted.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently, frustration in his usually delicate features.

"It's not Arabic, Sherlock. It's Hebrew."

"What? You can't be serious."

"Well, I used to date a Jewish girl back in college. I've learnt some things." He gave the photo back to the detective. "It means _Shalom Aleichem_," John's voice muttered. "Peace be upon you."

Sherlock's face twisted in a mix of embarrassment and fury. How could _he _have missed that? Well, at least he was glad that he got through embarrassment next to John. John wouldn't mock him, or judge him, or be mean because his brain was taunting him. The detective felt his face go warm and furrowed an eyebrow. Suddenly he heard a soft, rhythmic breathing, and his eyes fixed the angelic figure of the sleeping doctor. Knowing John wouldn't wake up, he walked to him and slid his arms under his body, lifting him from the armchair.

He carefully walked through the sitting room and went up the stairs, trying not to make any sudden moves. John shifted in his arms and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, breathing deeply. _You beautiful, silly man._ He opened John's room door with a slight kick and gently laid the army doctor in his bed, covering him with the woollen blanket.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Yo, Peoples! Bloo is back and Bloo brings her very first attempt on writing a BBC Sherlock fic! Yeah, my crazy-arse best friend made me hostage and forced me to write until my fingertips were bleeding!

So, this was a request by _Shivanni_, which I decided to grant_, _killing two rabbits with one bullet. So you who made me suffer hours on end in front of my laptop, consider this a Christmas present. You lucky girl! =D

Anyway, enough of me being boring. If you have any questions, suggestions, ideas, corrections, observations or marriage proposals, don't hesitate on PM'ing me, I'll try to answer as soon as possible.

Please leave your REVIEW, the destiny of this boys is on your hands!

**OH! And an important note** (It's on BOLD so it's _really_ important).** English is not my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, please be kind to mend me, 'kay?**

**Next:** A Change in the Wind

*****Bloo*****


	2. A Change in the Wind

**Chapter 2: A Change in the Wind**

For the first time in a whole week, John was able to sleep more than four hours straight. When he woke up, it was close to two o'clock in the afternoon and the simple thought made him ecstatic. Rubbing the sleep off his eyes, John slid his feet into the warm fuzziness of his slippers and walked to the bathroom. Somehow he didn't have memory of returning to his room last night, but then again, with the amount of fatigue that was drowning his brain, all he did remember was parted in bits and pieces. The last thing he could recall was Sherlock's piercing blue eyes shining with some sort of contentment and a grin on his lips. And then there was total blackness.

He didn't dream, or if he did, he couldn't certainly remember it, which was probably good, since his dreams had the nasty habit of turning into nightmares, making him wake up with his heart on his throat and tears in his eyes. John finished brushing his teeth and went downstairs, heading straight to the kitchen.

"Oh, dammit!" he muttered looking at the empty milk carton on top of the kitchen counter. "I forgot to buy milk. How did I forget to buy milk, _again?_"

He walked to the fridge, hoping to at least find some cream to put in his tea (yeah, nasty habits). The fridge door closed almost as immediately as it opened. He muttered a cuss at the sight of not one, but two human heads.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said grinning.

"What the hell Sherlock! Stop sneaking up on me like that! I almost had a heart attack!" John snapped. "What the bloody hell is _that_ doing there?" He opened the fridge and pointed at the heads.

"Why, John, they're a part of my—"

"Experiments. I know!"

"Why did you ask then? Do you find it amusing to waste your saliva in such irrelevant questions?"

John sighed. "It's a child's head, Sherlock! A. Child's. Head!"

"Yes, I am very aware of that fact."

John blinked his eyes as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Would you please, _at least_, write a damn post it with what I'm to find in the fridge next time?"

"And why would I do that?"

"I don't want to nearly crap my pants each time I'm looking for milk, or butter, and I'm not even mentioning _food,_" John said, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "A simple _Beware, head! _would be fine."

"I'll try to have that in consideration," Sherlock said solemnly.

"Good. Thank you." John picked up the jar of pickles.

"I wouldn't eat that if I were you," Sherlock warned.

"What, why?" the doctor asked, glancing at the floating cucumber. "It looks fine to me."

"It's not what you think it is, John. Trust me. You don't want to eat that."

"What do you mean it's not what I—" John took a second look at the jar and his eyes widened in shock. "Oh, God. Please tell me this is not what I think it is!"

"I just said that, John," the detective looked puzzled at his flatmate.

"Is this a phallus, Sherlock?" John asked, feeling a lump on his throat.

"Well, yes."

"You planted a bloody cock inside my fridge?" John's voice screeched.

"It's for an experiment. I am measuring the preservative properties of vinegar when—"

"I really don't want to know," John said putting the jar down. He grabbed the kettle and flicked it on.

"It's a rather interesting experiment," Sherlock said defensively.

"So it seems."

Sherlock pouted and walked to the couch, falling heavily on the large comfy pillows. "I called Lestrade last night."

"Call? You never call. You always text."

"Well, it seemed that the occasion required for a call."

"Aright, what did he say?"

"_Piss off Sherlock, it's five in the morning. Why the hell are you calling?_" Sherlock said furrowing his brow at the memory.

John snorted. "Are you mad? The man isn't like you. He needs to sleep."

"Oh, well. Sleeping is dull."

"Yes, it might be dull, but it's very much required," John said. "Why did you call him anyways?"

"I wanted to confirm your theory."

"Sorry, _my_ theory?" John asked pouring the boiling water into his cuppa.

"Sure! It seems to me that your brain works better when you're sleep deprived, which is rather odd. I would enjoy it very much if you let me study that curious characteristic of yours."

"I am not a dummy Sherlock. You'll have to find another guinea pig for the job—"

"Anyway, Lestrade called me back this morning," Sherlock said, cutting John's words with a wave of his long, pale fingers.

"And?"

"And they found the woman's family," the detective looked up at John. "Your deductions were right last night."

"About that, Sherlock, I told you already that I was too tired to think! I didn't even have any contact with the body! How could I be sure by looking at—" John stopped the mumbling as soon as Sherlock's words really entered his brain. "Wait, I was right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Like _actually_ right_?_" John asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"No..." John was speechless.

"You shouldn't think so less of you John. You underestimate yourself," Sherlock sighed. "When you really want to, you are able to make that pretty little brain of yours work rather decently."

"Was that a compliment, Sherlock?"

For some reason the good doctor felt his face warm up and he knew he was blushing.

"It was a perfectly normal analysis, entirely based on a fact. And the _fact _here is that you were able to successfully come to a positive conclusion based on the material, or lack of it, that I provided you with last night," the detective said pressing his fingertips on his lips.

John sat on his armchair, resting the cup in the arm-rest.

"You forgot to put sugar in it," Sherlock mumbled closing his eyes.

"What?"

"The tea, John. Sugar. You forgot."

John got up again and walked to the kitchen.

"So, the woman's family?"

"Yes. Her name's Graciela Gonzaga, thirty-two years of age, married to Esteban Gonzaga and mother of two girls, twins," Sherlock said.

"Well, that's got to be something, right?"

"Yes, of course it is. Not relevant though. What was impressive was the fact that she was eight weeks pregnant."

"Oh, she was?" John sat on the armchair again, trying to recall their conversation from last night. "Right, she was."

"Just like you said," the detective sighed.

"So why is it impressive? Do you have any leads towards the murderer?"

"Don't be silly, John. I _know_ who the murderer is."

"You _know_? And are you sure about it?" John asked taking a sip from his cup.

Sherlock gazed at John as if the latter had said something extremely offensive. Which he had.

"Of course I am sure! What kind of question was that?"

"Right. You are you. Of course you know," John sighed and slid in his comfy armchair. "So who did it?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but his words were cut off by his phone. Both John and Sherlock stiffened looking at the gadget. For some reason, since that _little_ game they played with Moriarty, well, that _Sherlock_ played dragging John along with him, each time they heard a phone ringing the tension built up in the room. After seven months since the day in the pool, John was just starting to convince himself that Moriarty was dead, when Sherlock was very convinced that Moriarty was nowhere _near_ dead. They had argued about that and it ended with Sherlock blowing up the oven and John slamming the door only to return four days later.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective greeted. After a few nods and a couple of occasional deep glances into John's eyes, Sherlock's lips went all Cheshire Cat in a weird smile. "On my way."

He hung up the device and jumped from the couch. John sipped the warm tea as he watched his flatmate slid the coat over his lean figure.

"Care to join me?" Sherlock asked.

"I would love to," John said but not moving from his place in the armchair. He was now paying attention at the way Sherlock's hands handled the blue scarf around his long, pale neck.

"Well come on, then!"

"I can't. I have a house call in thirty minutes," the doctor's voice was filled with annoyance.

"It's Saturday!" Sherlock objected, arching a brow at him.

"Yes, I know. But I already told Sarah I would go," John sighed. "Maybe when I'm done I could go and meet you?"

Sherlock shrugged and closed the door behind him. It almost looked to John as if the detective was disappointed for going by himself, and by himself I mean _without John_. He noticed he was smirking and quickly tried to wipe the smile of his face. He got up and went upstairs to get dressed.

**...**

"Ah! Sherlock! Glad you could join us!"

The Detective Inspector's eyes flew to the door and he quickly made a gesture towards the forensics team to leave. Sherlock crossed the door and slammed it behind his back as soon as the last man went out the room.

"What do we have?" Sherlock asked looking around the room, and landing his eyes on the dead cold body on top of the bed.

"Esteban Gonzaga, thirty-five years of age. C.O.D. was multiple stabs on the chest and single shot to the head. This note was found on the bedside table. Looks familiar?" Lestrade asked arching an eyebrow, handing the evidence bag with note to Sherlock.

"_Shalom Aleichem_. It's the same kind of paper as the previous and the ink is clearly... Oh! No. Can't be, can it?" Sherlock widened his eyes and observed the lettering up close. "I would know that kind of line anywhere."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"Though it couldn't belong to the killer," Sherlock withdrew his Blackberry out of his inside coat pocket and tapped quickly on it until he found what he wanted. With a quick motion he tossed the phone to Lestrade and observed the note again. "How could I miss it the first time?" he cursed himself.

"Yes, Sherlock, very pretty," the DI said with an eye roll. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"Oh, God. That's offensive, even for you. The pen! It's a 2010 limited edition release from the Swiss brand Caran d'Ache, known as the most expensive pen in the world! It's an 18-karat gold pen, studded with a diamond and a ruby and it's worth over one hundred thousand pounds. Its lines are unique, of course, as I said – I could've known them _anywhere_."

Lestrade looked again at the image of the pen and scowled. "Who in the world would spend over a hundred grand on a pen?" he muttered to himself. "Anyway, where does this help, Sherlock? It's just a ridiculously expensive pen."

"So very vacant. Tell me, is your brain going to be away for long?" Sherlock huffed and retrieved his phone, handing the note to the DI. "What part of 'limited edition' seems to be the alien concept? Only ten were made, and all ten were sold. So, you can sit there and wonder about who has that kind of money, or actually do your job and check the selling records of the company! Actually, when you do have the records, check for any theft complaint. There's no way the killer could afford a pen like that."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and closed the space between him and the dead body. He looked through his pockets and retrieved his little magnifying glass, quickly running it up and down the body. Then he searched the man's pockets and brushed a gloved hand through the victim's dark hair.

"Sherlock? Do you mind?" Lestrade called. "Forensics need to take the body," he sighed.

"You can't rush perfection, _Detective_," Sherlock said this last word mockingly, as if Lestrade wasn't even worthy of such title.

"Just tell me what you got," the DI asked, resting his hands on his hips.

Sherlock smirked. "The M.O. is exactly the same as on Graciela Gonzaga's body, seven methodical stabs on the chest. This was calculated, precise, he has to have good knowledge of the human anatomy to harm but not kill, so he was looking for questions. When he got what he wanted, _Bang!_ shot to the head and goodnight Cinderella." Sherlock took two steps back.

"You keep saying _he_. Why?"

"Because the person you're looking for is a thirty-five year old male."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How could you possibly know that?"

"This man, DI Lestrade, is not Esteban Gonzaga."

Now the DI was laughing. Sherlock frowned at his reaction.

"Yes, he is. He had his wallet on his back pocket, Sherlock."

"Oh, God. How can someone reach such a high level in the stupidity scale of dumbness?" Sherlock breathed impatiently. "Mr Gonzaga was married for longer than six years, the wedding ring would've been marked on his finger! Even if he had taken it off, which is highly improbable, he would have a tan mark, since it's sunny and hot in Argentina. But as you can see, there's nothing there!"

"So who is that man?" the DI was frowning

"I'll leave that to you," Sherlock took off the surgical gloves and shoved them in the nearest paper basket. Then, putting on his own gloves he went towards the door. "Take a sample of the substance on his hair and send it to Bart's. Meanwhile, run his DNA with Esteban's. I think you'll have a very pleasant surprise," he said and making his way out of the house, passing through a sea of curious faces.

"And where are you going?" Lestrade called from the porch.

Sherlock buried his hand inside the coat pocket and felt the business card he took from the dead man's body. "I feel like going for a stroll," then he stopped and turned around. "Find out where his boss is. I think you would like to warn him about those large amounts of paint diluent and where they are being extorted to."

"What? He was a smuggler?" Lestrade asked.

"Look in the attic."

And with this he ducked under the blue and white police tape and walked to the main road. Sherlock's hand felt the phone on his pocket and wondered if he should text John. _No._ He decided that if John swapped a crime scene for a boring house call that meant that he wasn't interested in knowing of Sherlock's whereabouts. Hailing a cab for Sherlock was as easy as breathing; something about him just screamed _Cab Magnet_. He sat on the comfy seats and smirked, holding the business card between his middle and index finger.

"Golden Burrow Motel," he said to the cabbie, "in Crown St."

**...**

John Watson was finding it hard to concentrate on the job. His head was working at light speed, wondering what he was missing. He would've killed for an opportunity to see that crime scene. He was sick of wandering around making house calls on weekends for extra pounds. When you're living with a flatmate like Holmes, you never know how much you will actually spend. Each time he thought he wouldn't have to care about extras, _BOOM!_ the microwave exploded, or the wall started to look more like a Swiss cheese and less like the solid barrier it once was. John had lost count for the pounds he spent mending the flat.

On top of it, and maybe even worse than all of that, the good doctor had yet another preoccupation to deal with: Sherlock Holmes himself. It seemed to him that the detective was becoming more attractive as the day went by. He often found himself staring at the man, looking close at his slim figure and sighing whenever he pronounced his name. 'John', Sherlock called in that voice that would've corrupted the Virgin Mary, those full lips moving slowly and arching in a smirk. _I must be insane!_ he thought to himself, shaking his sandy blonde hair and trying to focus on the lady in front of him.

"So, what do you think, Doctor Watson?" the lady asked, looking worried at him.

"It seems to me that you have the flu, which it's completely natural for this time of the year. Apparently there have been lots of flu cases, this season. Just follow your medication correctly and you will be as good as new by the end of the week," John said, handing her the prescription. "If you feel any worse please come and see me at the surgery, okay Mrs Williams?"

The woman nodded and thanked him. As she led him to the doors exit, she blew her nose loudly into a tissue. _If I'm not careful, I'll be the one ending up with the bloody flu._ John was looking for the paper where the next address was written down when his phone rang stridently. _Sherlock,_ he immediately thought, surprised by how quickly his thoughts flew to the much too handsome detective. He picked his phone and cleared his throat.

"John Watson," he greeted.

The doctor was more than disappointed when the sound that reached his ear was not that beautiful baritone voice, but a boring female's one.

"John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. We need you now!" she said in a mix of fear and uncertainty.

"Why? What happened? I am working, can't you call Sherlock?"

"That's precisely why we need you. Please come quick," in her voice John captured now panic.

"Sally, calm down. Tell me what happened," John dared to call her by the first name, not caring about formalities. Why was it that every time something happened was when he and Sherlock were apart from each other?

"There's no time! Get on a bloody cab and get your arse down here!" she yelled. "I texted you the address."

"I'm on my way," John hung up on Sally and slid his phone inside the pocket again. He ran to the main street, praying to get a cab as soon as he could.

He honestly didn't know what to think or what to expect. The only thing that was on his mind at the moment was Sally Donovan's panicked voice at the sound of Sherlock's name. She didn't even like the guy, so something really bad must've happened for her to be so frightened. The possibility to find Sherlock hurt was too painful for him. _Not Sherlock. Whatever is going on, please let it not be Sherlock,_ he mumbled as if his words could actually materialize.

He stretched his arm vividly at the sight of a cab. "Taxi!" he called, sighing in relieve when the car pulled over. John gave the cabbie the address and got inside the vehicle, hoping the traffic wasn't against him. He let his head fall against the window, savouring the coolness against his forehead. The traffic wasn't hellish, but t wasn't sympathetic either.

"Come on, come on, come on," he repeated like a mantra. "Damn traffic lights!" he snapped as the red light fell every time they approached a crossing.

Fifteen minutes later, he started to see unusual movement. Fire trucks and police cars rushed, all to the same place. A dark cloud of smoke rose in the sky, marking the address Sally gave him, like an X in a treasure map. Choppers flew in the dark grey sky, capturing the image of the burning building.

When he arrived he saw paramedics carrying the injured to the ambulances and looked intently to the stretchers not to see Sherlock's delicate features in one of them. He looked down the text message with the address and raised his head to the golden letters in the frame; _Golden Burrow Motel**._ He tipped the cabbie and walked out, looking for any sign of his flatmates lean figure.

"I am sorry, sir. Authorised staff only," a tall, well built fire-fighter said, blocking John's way.

"I am a doctor. Maybe I can help," he said in his best army doctor voice.

The fireman scowled. "Sorry, but I can't let you through."

John was turning red in anger and prepared to pin the man, several inches taller than him. _Who does this gorilla thinks he is? If he dares to get in the way between me and my Sherlock_—

"It's okay, he's with me," Lestrade said, pulling the tape up and letting John through to the burning crime scene.

"Thank you," the doctor said searching around.

"I'm glad you came so quickly," the DI was walking fast and John had to push himself a little not to stay behind.

"Well, sir, when Sally Donovan calls you almost in tears, one can't never knows what to expect." John murmured. His heart was now on his throat. _Where is Sherlock? Where the hell is he?_

As if guessing John's thoughts, Lestrade turned to face him and landed his hands on his shoulders. "He says the only one who can touch him is you. He refuses to be treated by anyone else, Doctor Watson. And you know Sherlock, it's nearly impossible to make him change his mind."

John nodded and didn't respond. He just wanted to see Sherlock's face and be sure he was alright. He was talking, which was a good thing. He was being rude, which was an even better thing. But he needed treatment, which wasn't such a good thing. He asked for John... now that he didn't know if it was a good or a bad thing, but he decided on the first.

Lestrade pointed towards one of the ambulances in front of them. Inside, two paramedics surrounded a delicate figure and struggled to put a bright orange blanket around his shoulders. The latter yanked them off and insulted them over and over again. A red, bloody line was drawing its way from behind the dark curls on his forehead and he also sported a deep cut on his nose and lip. His dazzling stormy eyes gazed furiously at the two men that surrounded him. John hopped on the vehicle and introduced himself to both man. As soon as Sherlock laid eyes on him, his gaze locked with John's and a half smile twitched in his lips.

"Oh God, Sherlock! What happened to you?" John kneeled besides the consulting detective holding his face between his hands and let go of the breath he was holding in his lungs for God knows how long. "You are hurt!" he said searching the younger man's body up and down and counting the wounds. It was mainly bruising and deep cuts, and spots of blood stained his grey shirt all over.

"It's nothing, John," Sherlock breathed. "I'm just glad you came."

John shook his head, never letting go of Sherlock's face. "You are an idiot! Why didn't you let the paramedics treat you?"

"Because they're not you," Sherlock said mater-of-factly. "They are not _my_ doctor."

John's heart slowly started making his way back to his chest, though it was beating harder than ever. Sherlock's words had a side effect on his chest. John tried to whip that away and brushed off the hair from his forehead to take a look at the wound.

"How did this happen? What is going on here? You know I don't like to be blinded like this!" John demanded crossing his eyes onto the detective's again.

"I was investigating the Gonzaga's case when the room next to the one I was in blew up," Sherlock said at length letting the unspoken words float between them.

John got up and looked for the medical trinkets to disinfect Sherlock's wounds. He knew what the detective was thinking. Just this one time, he knew exactly what was going on that brilliant mind of his. He looked back over his shoulder and faced those two big stormy eyes. Sherlock was watching him, analysing him, checking him out for any kind of reactions.

"He's dead," John whispered, not even realizing that he was actually _saying_ the words.

He reached the detective and brushed the gauze through his forehead, cleansing the blood from his features. Then he patched it up with extra care, as if he was dealing with a newborn. He moved down to his nose and lips, repeating the treatment. Then he stitched up the deep cut on Sherlock's forearm and sighed. All that time the doctor could feel his flatmate's eyes on him. Just staring. Observing. Penetrating his flesh and looking into his soul. John shifted uncomfortably and jerked his head up.

"What?" he snapped.

"You knew this was coming, sooner or later," Sherlock said.

John refused to believe. It was lucky enough for them both to have lived through the explosion. He wanted to be at least 99% sure that Moriarty didn't have the same luck. In seven months he never gave them any sign of being alive. If he wanted Sherlock so much, why didn't he strike when they both were vulnerable? He had loads of opportunities to do so. Why now? John shook his head and breathed deeply. The scent of Sherlock's cologne mixed with the burning scent from outside the ambulance, and he closed his eyes, throwing his head back.

"I will only believe that he's the one behind this when I see him with my own eyes. Until then, I'll just freak out with the possibility of being yet another bomb maniac set loose that wants to kill you."

"Us."

"What?"

"You said 'kill _you'_. Didn't you mean _us_?"

John felt his face warm up and nodded awkwardly. "Yeah, sure, _us_," he said.

_No, you idiot. I didn't mean _us_, I meant you! Because no one is coming after lame John Watson..._

"Unless they're trying to get to me," Sherlock completed his thoughts.

John lifted his eyes and looked into Sherlock's. "Stay out of my head. I'm warning you. I _will_ hurt you."

Sherlock snorted and started laughing. John scowled first, but the image of his flatmate laughing was just too peaceful and so he ended up making a laughter chorus next to him.

"Oh God. Take me home, John."

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

><p>AN: Love the boys. Impossible not to :D So here is part two. Now I'm thinking that I should probably update weekly, like, every Friday? uh?

Thank you all for the faves and alerts and reviews and please don't stop. I appreciate it a lot, and it helps me with the story :D

*Bloo*


	3. In One's Head

**Chapter 3: Inside One's Head**

He could feel it, the warmth of his flatmate's body just besides him, looking dully at the words of book he was holding with those long fingers. Occasionally he heard him snort in disbelief, or growl in frustration. He tried to concentrate on whatever show was on the telly. Then his flatmate growled again.

"Where are the good writers from old days?" Sherlock asked under his breath.

"They're dead," John responded.

"Selfish bastards," Sherlock said breathing out loudly, as if they died on purpose to annoy him.

John shook his head slowly and focused on the little magic box again. "Deal with it."

Sherlock closed the book with a loud thump and tossed it to the coffee table. "What's that, then?" he asked making a motion towards the telly.

"Some house flip show," John answered with a shrug.

"Dull."

"Yeah, it might be dull, but the truth is that it taught me how to put the flat back together whenever you decide to blow it up! Or didn't you happen to notice that we still have walls?"

"I am bored," Sherlock said as if he hadn't heard John. "I am so bored, it hurts."

"Oh God. Sherlock, you should get a hobby."

"Any ideas?"

John could feel Sherlock's gaze on him – a pair of clear blue eyes reading every move, every breath, every thought.

"I don't know. Rubik's cube, Neocube—"

"Any ideas that don't involve cubes, perhaps?" Sherlock reformulated with an eye roll.

"Have you met Miss Marple?"

"Who?"

"Miss Marple. From Agatha Christie's novels," John said naturally.

"No idea."

"Really? She's brilliant! I think you should—"

"What I really meant was _not interested._ Sorry for my misstatement."

Sherlock got a few inches closer to John in the couch, leaning towards the heat. John felt his cheeks burn and felt stupid for it. It's only natural for one to get close to warmth when the whole bloody room is freezing. But yet, John couldn't take his mind of the fact that Sherlock was _oh so close_ to him. He felt a shiver run down his spine and shifted uncomfortably on his seat.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in a tone far deeper than necessary.

"No-nothing. W-why do you ask?"

"You seem uncomfortable... _John_."

His voice was like melted chocolate. The way he said John's name crossed the barrier from low and casual to deep and private, and it went straight to John's lower half. The doctor thanked for having the woollen blanket covering their legs, hiding his shameless half hard bulge. _Honestly, Watson! He's your flatmate! He's Sherlock bloody Holmes! Get a grip, will you?_ He felt Sherlock's gaze on him like fire through paper.

"Can— Can you stop t-that? Please," he asked, trying hard not to get any redder or _harder_. He faced forwards, forcing himself not to turn his head and get caught in Sherlock's eyes.

"Stop what?" the detective said slowly, and John could almost hear the scowl in his voice.

"_That! _Staring. Don't stare. It's not polite."

"Am I bothering you, John?" again, John's name came intimately from Sherlock's lips.

John's breathing became a tad irregular and he jolted up the couch.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, annoyance flashing in his voice.

"Out for a... jog. I feel like running for hours and then have a very, _very,_ cold shower."

"Don't go."

"Why not?"

"It's not safe for you to be alone."

"Yeah, well, I'm only in danger because I'm with you. I mean, sharing the flat and stuff, you know."

Sherlock smirked. "Touché."

"Please don't blow job the flat while I'm gone."

Sherlock tilted his head to a side, his Cheshire Cat smile starting to form on his lips. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"Don't worry John. I will not _blow job_ our flat. I promise."

"Oh fuck! I meant don't blow _up!_ Dammit!" John turned on his heels and rushed to the door.

"We're out of milk!" John heard Sherlock shout just before the door slammed shut.

"Get it yourself!" John mumbled furiously.

He knew he was walking funny. _God damn that man and his excruciating, tortuous, beautiful voice!_ The lump on his pants was brushing painfully against the rough cloth of his jeans and he swore in frustration. He regretted that he asked Sarah to stay home for the week so he could look after Sherlock and make sure he wasn't going to get himself killed. Now he had no option but to endure it, or jog, or take cold showers in the middle of November. _Bloody hell. From all the almost seven billion people in the whole wide world, I had to lust after my flatmate? Of all people! Sherlock!_ John sighed as he started to run. He didn't have a destination or a route. He just wanted to run until he collapsed, trying to brush away the image of the consulting detective's face off his mind.

The streets were dead empty due to the slicing cold and John thanked for it. The last thing he needed was people around him. He started to wonder if Sherlock's sociopathic nature was starting to affect him too. Oh God, he needed a distraction. Urgently. And unfortunately jogging wasn't helping at all; instead it was hurting him... a lot. Yet, he refused to go back home and be tortured by Sherlock's presence. He knew he didn't do it on purpose, or did he? _Nah, he's a bloody sociopath_, John reasoned while accelerating his rhythm. _God! He's a bloody bored sociopath. He would do anything by now, even tease me._ John stopped abruptly. _He would only tease me on purpose if he knew something about my lust issues._ John shivered at the thought. If Sherlock knew, John was in trouble.

"Ow, fuck it!" he said as he returned to his running.

**...**

Sherlock sat on the couch for about half an hour after John left the flat. He wasn't sure why John left in such a hurry or where he was going, and honestly he didn't really care. Okay, he did care, but he decided to keep his brain busy with other thoughts then John's features, or that sweet shampoo scent that filled his nostrils every time he got close to his golden head, or the way he blushed when Sherlock started talking slowly and deeply; oh he loved to see John Watson blush.

But instead of that he just picked up thoughts he didn't dare to touch when his flatmate was around, like the Golden Burrow Motel's explosion. Two days had passed and Sherlock was completely clueless about what had happened. He stood up and checked his phone for messages – nil.

He paced around the flat, hands inside his robe's pockets. _What if Moriarty is alive? What does he have planned this time?_ He waited for a sign, a clue, a whisper, but all he got was silence. He wanted to trust John's theory and believe that Jim was dead as a doorknob. But he had a feeling in his gut – that same feeling that was never wrong no matter what – and it was strongly telling him that the consulting criminal was still alive and ready for another tango show-down. The bomb at the motel was just his way to say 'Hey there Sexy! Missed me?'. Lestrade had guaranteed him that it was only a gas leak. Of course that, as usual, Sherlock was right when thinking that it was no gas leak that blew up the five floors of the building. They found traces of the same Semtex material that was used seven months before in the building across 221B, and in all the voices Moriarty had 'borrowed' for their little game. _Coincidence? I don't think so._

In one thing Sherlock agreed with John: why now? After all that time, after all the opportunities he had to strike on them – on _him_, why now? It seemed absurd. Everything was the same as it was back then, nothing changed and their lives were back to normal. Well, at least their version of _normal_. John was working at the surgery; Sherlock was making experiments on the kitchen table. John put the kettle on to make tea; Sherlock was making experiments on the bathroom. John was sleeping; Sherlock was _kindly_ making loads of noises with his violin. John went to the grocery; Sherlock shot the wall. There was not one single thing that was different in their lives, so why precisely did Moriarty choose this moment to strike?

Sherlock scanned through the well organized folders in his brain, fishing for old memories, traces, clues that could give him a lead on his 'old friend'. Unfortunately his head started to hurt too much, as the painkillers John gave him started to lose their effect. He looked down at his forearm and peeled off the bandage, examining the stitches with a curious look.

"Ooh-hoo!" the soft knock on the door sounded and Sherlock glared at the incoming figure.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock greeted dully.

"Sherlock, dear. How are you? I was so worried about you when John told me about the explosion. You boys seem to have some kind of trouble magnet, I can tell. Just like my late husband—"

"How can I help you, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock cut out before she wouldn't be able to stop.

"Aw, yes, I was wondering if John could help me downstairs, moving a bed into my guest room. My niece is moving to London, you see, and she needs to stay at my place for a couple of days, before—"

"He's not here."

"Oh, I didn't notice he left. Alright, then. I'll just wait for him downstairs. Can you please tell him—"

"Consider it done."

"Thank you Sherlock," the landlady said with a warm smile before turning around and leaving.

Sherlock sighed impatiently and returned his attention to the stitches on his arm when the door slammed downstairs. "Evening, Mrs Hudson," he heard John say, breathless from running. He glanced at the clock on top of the hearth; John had been away for almost two hours. Mrs Hudson's voice murmured something imperceptible, that Sherlock knew was concerning the favour she wanted to ask him, and he could almost hear the forced smile on John's voice when he replied. "Sure, let's do it then. Where is that bed?"

Sherlock grinned as he poked the stitches with his fingernail. Such perfect, delicate sutures could only be made by an amazing doctor and John was an exceptional doctor. _His _exceptional doctor. Sherlock wasn't sure about when he started to have these possessive thoughts towards his flatmate. But it was becoming more and more frequent. Often he would think of John as _his_ John, _his_ friend, _his_ conscience. The only friend he would ever know. Silly and naïve. Brave and fearless. Beautiful and surprising. _Yes, my John._

Shortly after he heard heavy steps coming up the stairs and the bathroom door flew open. He pouted at the thought of John not even consider to check up on him before his bath. He could be dead by now, for all he knew. His hand slipped on one of the stitches and he twitched in pain as a dark red line started to run down his flesh.

"Oh hell," he murmured, looking curiously at the broken suture.

As fascinating as Sherlock was finding it, it was hurting him. Everything was hurting him. He hadn't felt this bad since the pool incident. He jolted off the sitting room and went to fetch the medical kit on his bedroom.

_Where is it?_ He furrowed his brows and looked around. _Yes, John used it last night. It must be in his room, then_. He ran upstairs and busted the door open, again scanning around for the little white kit. It should be easier to find it here, since John had this almost-compulsive military obsession of having everything in place, and yet, no sight of the first aid bag. _So it must be... Oh! Of course! Bathroom!_

Sherlock stopped about three feet away from the bathroom door. It was open. Well, not _open_ open, but it wasn't closed either. No steam coming from the inside, so John really was having a cold water shower. _My silly John._ He thought, shaking his head slowly. Sherlock hesitated at the door, not knowing if he should go inside, fetch the kit and stop the bleeding or stay there and don't interrupt John's bath.

_John's bath..._ His brain started to flood with some curious images of the good doctor in the shower, cold water running down his broad, tanned back, chills forming on his skin where the water made its trail down his short, athletic body. Sherlock imagined his strong hands handling the liquid soap as he coated his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his—

The line of thought was broken with the sound of the faucet being closed, ending the water course. A faint "Aah" of satisfaction travelled all the way from John's lips to Sherlock's ears. The latter was feeling utterly uncomfortable now. Not with the situation, of course, but his slacks had suddenly become tighter. He looked down at the forming hardness on his pants and scowled at it. When he raised his eyes again, he found a very-stripped doctor with nothing but a red towel around his hips. His mouth went dry.

"Shelock! What the hell?" John asked, his cheeks and ears matching the towel's tone. "Are you spying on me?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly before adopting that blank expression that only he could pull off in embarrassing times like this.

"I broke my stitches," he said dismally, raising his forearm to show John his open wound.

"Ow, hell! You couldn't stay still, could you?" John said, dragging Sherlock inside the bathroom and sitting him on the toilet top. "I turn my back and you go and do something stupid!"

As to reinforce John's words, when he turned his back to fetch the suture kit, Sherlock stared openly at his figure, discreetly leading a hand to his crotch to rearrange the position of his hurting bulge.

John sat on the tub border, in front of Sherlock and poured some alcohol onto his hands. Although he just finished bathing, he wasn't going to take any risks of infecting Sherlock's wound.

"How did you do this?"

"I was bored," the detective said with a shrug.

The doctor took his arm gently and carefully removed the remaining traces of the stitches on Sherlock's arm. His touch sent electric reactions up and down the detective's body and he shut his eyes firmly, concentrating on anything but _very-naked John_. At lack of something better, he started to recite the Fibonacci sequence.

_0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13..._

"You should be careful, Sherlock. I sutured it so you wouldn't have a nasty scar, but now I don't know if I can do that again. Sometimes you behave like a real child, you know?" John reprimanded softly.

_21, 34, 55, 89, 144…_

"Just stay still for a couple of hours and don't hurt yourself! Is it too much to ask?" John muttered again, sighing. "Of course it is. What am I saying?"

_233, 377, 610, 987, 1597…_

"Oi! Are you even listening?"

Sherlock fluttered his eyes open only to meet with that liquid silver tone on John's. "Of course I am, John. Who do you take me for? Reckless and deaf?" he said in a much harsh tone that he expected.

John finished the sutures and brushed a hand through the taller man's forehead, then through the bridge of his nose and finally through the cut on his lower lip. Feeling the touch of John's thumb against his lips was more than enough to awake the semi-sleeping beast on his trousers. His eyes widened with the effect and his careful blank expression came down for a moment.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" John asked, alarmed by Sherlock's look.

The detective shook his head and quickly tried to raise that emotionless barrier again. John nodded and got up, carefully holding the towel tight against his hips. Sherlock could've sworn he saw... no, it couldn't be, could it? Was John aroused? Did he cause that on him? _Of course not. He had a cold bath. Cold water can have that side effect on you._

"I'm going to call takeaway. Feel like having Chinese?" John asked as he was exiting the bathroom.

"Italian," Sherlock answered shortly.

"Right," John said with a quick smile.

Sherlock just stood there. He tossed his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. _God damn very-naked John Watson._ His hand reached the door and closed it shut, cutting the access from the rest of the flat. He looked down at the lump on his trousers and scowled.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he roared impatiently.

The desire to wack off right there was screaming pretty loud in his brain now, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He was a superior man who had learnt to control those kinds of primitive impulses, and even if he hadn't, those were the sorts of things that one does in the privacy of the bedroom. _Oh God! It hurts!_

**...**

Upstairs, John Watson was experiencing pretty much the same dilemma. Having Sherlock all that close to him, while having no clothes on, set on some crazy alarm that just wouldn't stop. His body was aching and yearning and he was starting to be pissed with the idea. He quickly closed the door and called Angelo's takeaway. Then he unwrapped the towel and went to the drawer to pick up a clean pair of blue boxer briefs.

"You are killing me, mate," he whispered to his erection. "You're fucking killing me! What do I need to do for you to just calm down?"

John knew the answer. Jogging and cold baths helped, but they certainly didn't result as a 'cure'. He travelled his hand down to his prick, rubbing it gently, up and down in slow, even strokes. A wave of heat rushed down his spine as he started to quicken the movements. He leaned one hand against the wall in front of him, catching balance as he closed his eyes. His mind's eye quickly fishing the image of Sherlock Holmes, his pale skin and the striking blue of his eyes. He pictured Sherlock's lips. Those Cupid's bow lips... they would fit so perfectly around his cock.

"Oh God," John breathed.

John imagined Sherlock on his knees, always so perfect, always so graceful, his long pale fingers digging in his flesh, as John's hands tangled on his hair. He let his head fall back as the thought of him thrusting inside Sherlock's mouth formed in his head and he felt his bollocks getting hard. He could picture Sherlock's tongue running up and down his shaft, leaving that glistening trail of saliva, as his delicate, skilled hands massaged his balls softly. The strokes became a tad quicker and more irregular.

"Holy fuck— ngh," he groaned through gritted teeth.

In his mind he could hear Sherlock's baritone whispering his name – that deep _John_ purr that came out of his lips like a prayer. He was so close. The simple thought of Sherlock's eyes locking to his through those long, dark lashes, while taking him on his mouth was enough to push him of the edge. His hips rocked against his hand and his body teetered as he felt the warm fluid spill all over his hand.

"Christ! Oh, Jesus fucking Christ! Sher—" he bit hard on the inside of his cheeks refusing to say _his_ name out loud as he came.

John breathed deeply for a few seconds, aware that he was taking far too much time to _get dressed_ and Sherlock would probably notice it. He dared to open his eyes and look down to the mess he'd made. _God. You idiot! You bloody idiot!_ He curled his hand into a fist and punched the wall in front of him.

Yes. Guilt. The worst of John's nightmares. He felt guilty for lusting after Sherlock, but he felt guiltier for succumbing to that lust and not being able to stop himself. And it was getting worse. Each time he wanked took him less time to come, so he found himself doing it quite regularly. Someday wanking won't be enough. Someday he won't be satisfied until he has a taste of the real deal.

He picked up the red towel and cleaned himself up, before sitting down on the bed, is head buried between his hands as he sighed. Three knocks sounded on the door, downstairs, followed by Sherlock's impatient "John! The door!" which made the doctor grimace. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, before getting up and picking up the forgotten boxer briefs, on the floor.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was alarmingly close. "Can't you hear me cal—"

Sherlock opened the door to John's room just in time to see a flash of his white arse, before it disappeared inside the navy blue cotton fabric.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, is knocking a new concept in your dictionary?" John snapped as he turned back to face his flatmate.

Sherlock scanned the room and his eyes rested on the red towel by John's bed. Then he looked at John, his bare chest sporting a nasty scar where the bullet had perforated his skin.

"Actually, John, since there's someone knocking at the door for the last five minutes, it makes it a bit hard to be such a new concept for me," Sherlock said bleakly, raising an eyebrow.

"And while you're here talking to me, you could've gone downstairs and actually answer the bloke! It's our dinner, Sherlock," John said, his voice half muffled by the black t-shirt he was shoving down his neck.

"I can't. The doctor said that I am to be still and don't hurt myself. Sorry, John. Doctor's orders," Sherlock said solemnly, the shadow of a smirk faintly appearing in the corner of his lips.

John laced up his pajama slacks and rolled his eyes. "Go to the sitting room, then. I'll go fetch the food," he sighed, feeling much too tired to argue.

Sherlock turned on his heels and went downstairs, followed by one very flushed John Watson. _That was close. That was too close._

**...**

"How's your pasta?" John asked casually as he put another spoonful of food in his mouth.

"It tastes like pasta, which, I think, is the intended. So I can't complaint," Sherlock replied in that bored tone that, he knew, drove John crazy with frustration.

"You didn't even taste it yet," John pointed out with a scowl. "You have to eat to recover! Your wounds are pretty nasty! Your body needs energy. Eat!"

"Is that an order, doctor?"

"Don't make me shove it down your throat, Sherlock," John said harshly, giving Sherlock _the look._

John had given him _the look_ a lot lately. It's that I-was-in-the-army-and-I-can-still-kick-your-arse-if-I-have-to-no-matter-how-shorter-I-am look. Sherlock decided to call it just _the look_, in order to simplify things a bit. The detective sighed and bit the almost empty fork, chewing slowly. His face was distorted as if he had just bitten a very sour lemon.

"See? That's better. Now finish it and then go to bed," John said as if he was talking to one of the kids he sees at the surgery. "You hadn't slept decently in days."

"Since when did you become my father?" Sherlock objected, scowling. "I don't remind calling the SOS Daddy hotline."

"Aw, Sherlock, aren't you adorable when you pout. Do you need a hug?"

"Oh God, that's even worse than fathering me."

"Eat!" John demanded, noticing that Sherlock was stalling.

He rolled his eyes and did as told. He hated when John behaved like this.

Wait, did he?

_He cares. Oh, what humanity does to a person._ Somehow he couldn't see John's humanity as something wrong and dull and predictable. John was surprising, exciting, dynamic. John had more life in his five foot seven than Mycroft would ever have in his six foot two, and that life was what kept Sherlock moving. Sure, Sherlock worked just fine before meeting John, but now he knew him, the thought of not having him around was like the faint light of a candle being extinguished by the wind, leaving him in the cold darkness.

After they finished dinner, John checked up on Sherlock's wounds again. It was almost like he was arranging an excuse to touch him, to be near him, and Sherlock didn't mind. Of course he would complaint! He wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if he didn't. But he enjoyed having the doctor next to him. Smelling that fresh scent of John's hair or feeling the warm touch of his hands, it all made him feel safe.

"Bored," Sherlock said.

John lifted his gaze from Sherlock's lips (which the doctor was rubbing with a cotton swab) to his eyes (which were fixed on John's flaxen hair, trying to get a glimpse of that liquid silvery tone in John's).

"Read a book," John suggested.

"Boring."

"Watch some telly."

"Dull," Sherlock said tossing his head back on the couch.

"Go to sleep."

"Tedious."

"You need to rest, Sher—"

"Pointless."

"One of life requirements, though. Right next to breathing, eating and drinking water," John said in his doctor voice.

"What am I supposed to do while sleeping? It's a complete waste of time and absolutely useless. I feel perfectly fine! So fine I could be dancing tango right now!"

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Nothing," the doctor said, closing his mouth and biting his lips. Sherlock could see he was trying to hold laughter.

"What's so funny?" he snapped. "I'm dying of boredom, and you laugh?"

"It's just, the image of you dancing tango," John burst out laughing, not being able to contain the image of Sherlock dressed in a red, ruffled tango dress, high heels and a bright red rose clutched between his teeth.

Something about John's laughter sent a warm wave of something straight to Sherlock's chest and shortly after, he too was laughing. Because that was John, the only human being capable of warming up Sherlock's dormant heart enough to make him laugh.

"John."

The doctor breathed deeply, trying to wipe the grin out of his lips. "What?" he said with a final giggle.

"Thank you," the detective said looking in John's eyes.

The good doctor furrowed an eyebrow and looked puzzled at him. "What?"

"You heard me. I'm not saying it again," Sherlock pouted and looked away, suddenly very much interested in a fly that landed in the border of John's cuppa.

"Alright, fair enough. Why are you thanking, then?"

"For this," he said gesturing vaguely between them.

"Yeah, mate. Anytime. Now I really think you should get some rest. Come, come mister, to the bedroom, _now_."

Sherlock felt like grinning widely at his choice of words. "Will you tuck me in?"

"Yes, sure. Whatever," John said impatiently.

"Don't be harsh with me, _daddy_. I'm ill!"

"No, Sherlock, you are not," John said with an exaggerated eye roll.

"But I have a boo-boo that hurts," Sherlock whined.

"And here I was thinking you were a thirty-three year old male that was self trained not to feel a damn thing," John sighed. "I'm learning something new every day."

"And John?" Sherlock called, clearly ignoring John's protest.

"Yo."

"Will you read me a bed time story and kiss my forehead?"

"Don't push it, Holmes."

* * *

><p>AN: I know it's not Friday yet, but, oh well... It's not like you're going to kill me for updating sooner, right?

Anyway...tell me what you think in your review, I appreciate it a lot.

*Bloo*


	4. Not Good

**Chapter 4: Not Good**

"That was..."

"Extraordinary?"

"... completely rude and unnecessary."

The smile on Sherlock's lips quickly vanished. "Was it?" he gazed at John with that expression that says: '_Hello_! Emotionless _high_-_functioning sociopath_ here! Care to elaborate what exactly I've done wrong?'

"The lady is crying her heart out, Sherlock," John hissed pointing to the direction of said lady.

"So I guess it was—"

"Yes, it was _very_ not good," John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving some of the strands ruffled up. Sherlock had to fight the urge to reach out and tousle his sandy blonde hair even more. "It's utterly impolite to say to a very pregnant woman that she is as fat as a whale, and that's probably the reason why her husband is messing up with his PA. That was cruel, even for you."

"But she was teasing me, John!" Sherlock whined as he traveled his hand towards his patched up forearm to scratch it.

John noticed it and slapped his hand. "I'm not stitching that up any more Sherlock! Five times is enough. Next time you'll go to the hospital."

"But it's itchy!" the detective whined again.

"God help me."

Things were way too weird between them for the past few days. They were sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for Lestrade to go meet them and give them some more evidences on the Gonzaga case. At first John tried to talk Sherlock into recovering before taking on the case again, but it was like swimming against the current, and frankly, even John was getting bored from being stuck at home all day.

"Don't scratch," John was looking out of the window, but he was still watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "When's Lestrade coming, anyway?"

"Soon," Sherlock said absentmindedly.

"You said that half an hour ago."

"And now he'll arrive sooner than he would half an hour ago."

John slapped his hand again and Sherlock grumbled in annoyance.

"What has he found out?"

"That dead man that was found on Saturday wasn't, as I had already told them, Esteban Gonzaga," Sherlock said.

"Graciela's husband?" Sherlock hummed in agreement and John stared outside the window again. "Who was he, then?"

"The magic of genetics," the detective followed John's gaze into the slow moving street. "Twin brother."

"This case is getting funnier by the moment. I thought you knew who killed Graciela Gonzaga. You told me so."

"And I _know_. I just don't know where he is, _yet_. That's why we're waiting for Lestrade here," he sighed and sipped on his third cup of black coffee.

"Who is he, then?" John said slapping Sherlock's hand, yet again.

"Mr Gonzaga!" Sherlock said satisfied, a wide grin forming in his lips.

"But I thought—"

"The husband. He's the responsible for his wife's death as well as his twin's."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and clutched it with a little more strength than necessary.

"I said. Don't. Scratch," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes and giving Sherlock _the look_. Then adopting his casual face again he proceeded. "Why would he kill them?"

Sherlock noticed that John's hand was still on his, but he kindly _forgot_ to point it out. The doctor's warm hand did feel good on his cold skin. "She was pregnant," he responded as he remembered that John asked him something.

"Right. Do you think that Esteban thought the baby was his brother's?"

"Oh, I don't think he thought so. I know he knows so, you see, Mr Gonzaga had a vasectomy two years ago, in London Bridge Hospital, while on a trip to visit his family."

"But how do you know the brother is—"

"Paint diluent," Sherlock said shortly. "Diego Gonzaga worked for an art studio near Regent's Park. He had that illness that some might call 'sticky finger disease'. He was smuggling the studio's goods and selling them aside to make some extra money. I know he had been to Argentina in the past two months for the frankly alarming red circle he drew around the departure day on his kitchen calendar. He didn't bother to change it to this month's page though, which tells me he didn't really care about the date on a daily basis, so he was anxious to go. The dead woman—"

"Graciela," John sighed.

"—was, as you said, eight weeks pregnant, which coincides with the time of his trip," he finished completely ignoring John's input.

"What has the paint diluent have to do with all the rest?"

"Her hair smelled like paint diluent! I ran some tests and confirmed that the chemical compose of the diluent on her hair and the ones in Diego's attic were the same. She was with him before she died, probably to warn him about very-furious Esteban."

"You ran some tests? Wait, when did you— Oh, God Sherlock, did you sneak out on me, again?"

"You were sleeping so peacefully, John. I didn't have the nerve to wake you up," Sherlock said softly as he felt John's thumb circle on his hand. He was sure the doctor wasn't even noticing what he was doing, but it sure felt good.

"Have you told Lestrade yet? That you know who murdered them?"

"No, he hasn't, but I am sure he won't mind to enlighten me," a folder was tossed to the table, making John jolt in surprise. "Afternoon gentlemen," Lestrade greeted as he took a seat next to John.

The elder man's eyes fell upon Sherlock's and John's hands and he smirked. When the doctor noticed the DI's gaze he retrieved his hand quickly, his ears turning bright red. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed quite thwarted with John's reaction.

"Had a hard time getting away from the missus?" Sherlock asked with a dull expression.

John, who had picked up the folder and was going through the reports, lifted his eyes and glanced at Sherlock with that 'Oh here we go again,' look.

"Actually no, I had a hard time finding the data you asked me. Now, care to tell me why have you withheld something as important as... oh, I don't know... the identity of the murderer?" Lestrade fixed his dark brown eyes on Sherlock, practically demanding an answer.

The detective rolled his eyes and repeated his deductions to the DI, in what he would call an autopilot mode. His lips were moving and he knew what he was saying, but his eyes flickered to John every so often. Absorbing the way the sun was playing with John's flaxen tone of his hair, making it golden and fair; the way his eyes seemed so much blue than the usual liquid silver tone; the way his delicate, light brown eyelashes rested upon his lower lid in those milliseconds before revealing his eyes again; the way his brows furrowed as he read some of the disturbing details on the reports.

"The problem is that we don't know where he is," the doctor said, finally lifting his eyes from the paper. "We have nothing to go on."

"We know he was at the motel," Sherlock said vaguely, paying attention at the way John was licking his lips.

"Yes, but the motel is down now," the DI said in frustration. "We are two steps back."

"Or maybe not."

"What do you mean, John?"

"Well, the owners of the motel said they relocated everyone to several nearby hostels," John said, ruffling his hair again.

"There are hundreds of hostels in that area! It would take us days, weeks to find the right one," Lestrade complained.

"Yes, true. But as I said, the Golden Burrow Motel management _relocated_ the clients, which means that they must have the client list register and the actual location. Right?"

For a couple of seconds no one said a word. Lestrade was considering the option and Sherlock was just astonished of how he hadn't think of that earlier. Was John slowing him down? Impossible, they've been working together for almost a year now and that was never a problem. Nothing changed, right? Right? _Wrong. Everything changed._ Sherlock thought as he looked again at John. _He changed. No. I changed. No, that's not it either. I changed because of him. God, John Watson, what the hell did you do to me?_

"You coming?" Sherlock noticed that both the DI and John were already halfway to the door. John stopped and turned back to Lestrade. "We'll meet you there."

The DI nodded and stepped outside the coffee shop, disappearing into the police vehicle.

John took his seat again and looked intently at Sherlock. "What's wrong, mate?" he asked.

"Everything," Sherlock said frowning. "Why would _he_ blow up the place if it was just a jealousy affair? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Blow up the place? Do you mean the motel?" John said, a hint of aggravation in his voice.

Sherlock knew he had said too much. He had informed John the cause of the explosion was a minor gas leak. But now he's mouth slipped to the truth. "Well, yes."

"You said it was—"

"I know what I said. I also know that if I had told you the truth you would be worrying after nothing!"

"_Nothing_, Sherlock?" John hissed, furiously. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean? You tell me that the place was deliberately trapped and you say I shouldn't worry about it? You could've died, for fuck's sake! What on earth is wrong with you?"

"I could've, but I didn't, did I? As far as I'm concerned, I am still here," Sherlock said, trying to sound calm and casual.

"What if it wasn't a coincidence, Sherlock? What if they knew you were to be there, investigating a mur— Oh God."

Sherlock met John's eyes. He was pale and his expression was blank. "John?"

"This all thing is a bloody set up to get to you, isn't it? This murder is just foreplay, a-a decoy," John turned his eyes away from Sherlock's and frowned. "How could you not tell me about this? I thought we were in this shit together!"

"And we are John—"

"The fuck we are, Sherlock!" John snapped, punching the table, making Sherlock jump in his seat. "I know I'm no Sherlock fucking Holmes, and I don't have the massive amount of intellect or cleverness that you have, but hell, I at least try! Stop being such an idiot! You don't have to do this alone! I thought—" John stopped abruptly and clenched his lips between his teeth. "I thought you knew that no matter what the hell happened I would be there. I care about you. You should start caring too."

Sherlock saw John get up almost knocking the chair down as he did so. He stood there, a massive lump on his throat and a huge burning sensation on the left side of his chest. He'd done it good this time. He would never think that John was going to react like that, though.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock managed to ask as John passed by him to exit the coffee shop.

"Lestrade's waiting for you," John said heavily, staring forwards.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock repeated, this time arranging courage to look at John's features.

"Home," John replied sharply. "Try not to die meanwhile. Not that _you_ care."

And with that he left the establishment. Sherlock saw him slide his hands inside the jacket's pockets and bow down his head in a defeated way. _I've hurt him. He said he cares about me. What does that mean?_ Sherlock sighed and deposited a fiver on the table before going out. He buttoned his dark woollen coat and adjusted the scarf around his neck, walking steadily to the road to hail a cab. In the distance he could spot a golden head descending the steps to the London tube.

_Why would John lose his temper like that?_

_Oh, you know why, Sherlock. Everything has its limits, even John Watson's patience._

_Oh, shut up! He only lost his temper when I told him about the real cause of the explosion._

_No, Sherlock. He lost his temper precisely because you didn't tell him about the explosion. He trusted you._

_He still does._

_Does he?_

_He cares about me. He said so._

_Care doesn't equal trust, though._

_No, it doesn't._

_And you care about him too. More than you'll even admit to yourself._

_Shut up! He's useful and that's that. I think better when he's around._

_He puts up with a lot of your... let's call it 'extravaganzas'._

_And yet he's still here._

_Oh, no, Sherlock. Look around you. Do you see him there?_

_He's at home, waiting for me._

_Yes but for how long?_

_I don't know. I just know that when I arrive home he'll be there on his armchair watching crap telly and sipping on his cuppa... Oh Christ, look at me! You're making me think like an emotional teenager!_

_Isn't that sweet?_

_What part of 'shut up' did you not understand? And why do you sound so much like Mycroft? Get out of my head!_

_It's time to make a choice, Sherlock. John won't be there forever. What is it that really matters to you?_

Sherlock shook his head, clearing his thoughts and looked outside the cab window at the moving streets. He had been so busy having an internal thought battle that he didn't even noticed that he had hailed a taxi. He recognized the way to the Golden Burrow Motel and frowned. _Time to make a choice. _Sure Lestrade could figure out where the man was by himself, couldn't he? On the other hand, this could be the main clue to get to Moriarty. He knew all of this was Moriarty's doing. _Besides, John is going nowhere._ He leaned back against the seat and smirked.

**...**

"_Two weeks together, that's all it took, two weeks for me to fall for you._"

He sat on his favourite armchair and sipped his cuppa, involving his shoulders with the woollen blanket.

"_You don't scare me, John._"

"_Well, you scare me_."

"Americans." John snorted and looked around for the remote. He spotted it on top of the coffee table. _Bugger! I don't want to get up now. I'm comfy!_ He sighed and looked at the telly, rolling his eyes at the sickening fluffiness.

"_Dear John, Should I start by telling you that I love you... If you come back I'll marry you..._"

"Yeah, right, like that's going to happen," John said bitterly.

"_After I got shot, you wanna know the very first thing that entered my mind? Before I blacked out? Coins_," 'John' said.

"Now that's bullshit! You get shot at war and you think 'Oh fucking hell, I'm going to die'! Not coins!" the doctor roared as he glanced at clock on top of the hearth.

Three soft knocks sounded at the door. John looked over his shoulder, still too lazy to get up.

"Who's that?" he asked from his chair.

In response he heard three more knocks. He got up with a huff and put down his cup on the arm-rest of his chair. Making his way to the door he went through the possibilities. Sherlock had the keys, so did Mrs Hudson. Maybe Mycroft? God, he really wasn't in the mood to have a chat with Mycroft.

"Afternoon, how can I help you?" He said, looking at the woman in front of him. She was carrying a small travelling bag and her curly red hair was wet from the rain that had started to pour.

"Hello, you must be Mr Holmes?"

"Doctor Watson, actually. Sherlock's not home at the moment, miss..."

"Evelyn Harper. I'm Martha Hudson's niece, she said to knock on your door if I needed anything and, well..." she hesitated. "I locked myself out of the flat and Aunt Martha said you had the spare key."

John smirked and nodded. "Sure, no problem. Let me just— Come in, don't stay there, or stay there if you like. Do whatever... right. Where did Sherlock keep that key?" John babbled, stepping to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry to bother you Doctor Watson. My wife often says that the only reason I still have a head is because it's attached to the rest of my body. Wise woman she is."

John smiled. "Found it!" he chanted as he returned to the sitting room with the pink key on his hand. "I'll help you with that," he said pointing to the bright yellow suitcase.

Five minutes later he was sitting on Mrs Hudson's couch and Evelyn was warming up some water for tea. He was feeling quite uncomfortable there, but she had insisted on thanking him with a nice hot cuppa, and being John Watson, how could he refuse? Her bright ginger hair was now up in a ponytail, revealing an interesting tattoo on the back of her head.

"It's Caitlin's lips," she had informed him later while in the middle of talking about art galleries in London, the conversation had detoured to tattoos. "She wrote me a letter when she asked me to marry her, with a lipstick kiss on the bottom. When we celebrated our one year anniversary she tattooed my name and I tattooed her lips."

"That was clever. So how long have you been together?" John asked her politely.

"We were going to complete our three year anniversary this month," he noticed the vague trembling on Evelyn's voice and sipped on his cuppa, not knowing what to say. "We're getting divorced. That's why I'm coming to London."

John was glad he didn't have to ask. He knew how divorces were. Still today, Harry was having a hard time with hers. "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how hard it is."

She smiled shyly and nodded. "So you...?"

John seemed a bit lost at first, but he soon got the track of the question. "No, hell no! My sister. She divorced around a year ago and it's still hard on her."_ Hey, maybe I should introduce Evelyn to Harry... once she sobers up. On a second thought..._

"Oh, alright," Evelyn shifted uncomfortably on the couch and John could almost read on her mind what she was about to say. "Are you and Mr Holmes together? If you don't mind me asking, of course."

John sighed. He was used to people assuming that. Two men sharing a flat and Sherlock's frankly admirable tolerance to John's presence, considering his sociopathic nature...

"No. We are not together," he said with a reassuring smile.

Evelyn looked at him with a knowing look, as if she could see past his expression and just _know_ about John's true feelings for Sherlock. Well, if she did know something, she didn't mention it. Nor could she, given that as she opened her mouth to speak, the main door burst open and shut again with a force of a tornado. Steps flying up the stairs towards his flat and that baritone voice thundering as the door upstairs flung open.

"John?"

The good doctor closed his eyes, trying to contain the uncomfortable shiver that rushed down his spine. He heard Evelyn put down her cuppa and she brushed a hand on John's forearm.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she said with a warm smile.

"What for?" he asked, only to remember that he was the one who opened the door to Mrs Hudson flat. "Oh, it was noth—"

"For listening. For not judging. Just thank you," Evelyn said wrapping her arms around the doctor in a quick hug. "You should go, now. Someone is hasty to see you."

John nodded and she led him to the door. Upstairs the voice thundered again, calling his name and he rolled his eyes.

"If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know," he said politely.

"Thank you again," she said. Then he turned away and she closed the door behind him.

John climbed the stairs slowly, making time, not wanting to see Sherlock right away. He was still pissed off with the fact that he had lied to him. Why would this brilliant man with his exceptional brain, function so perfectly well in the most complicated circumstances, but when confronted with situations of his own concerning the work and effort seemed so frustratingly void?

John wasn't stupid, he was an _idiot_, but not stupid. He knew what _sociopath_ meant, high-functioning or not, so he wasn't really expecting that Sherlock would reveal his fears with words, or that his perfectly deliberated blank expressions would show any change if he actually felt threatened. All John asked for was honesty. 'John, I think the explosion was meant for me.' That's all he asked.

Yet no. Sherlock was Sherlock. He always worked alone. At least he _thought_ he had to, because his intellect was so unique and extraordinary that it seemed that if he came in contact with even a slight hint of humanity, he would become crippled or something. Humanity was Sherlock's Kryptonite. He pushed away care and feelings and emotions as if they were radioactive, and that hurt John in a very odd way.

He reached the doorknob and twisted it slowly, breathing deeply and putting on his best bad-arse military face. The one that said 'fuck off Sherlock, I will not endure any more of your crap today'. So he stepped in and turned to close the door, but as he did so, he felt a tight grasp on his upper arm and then someone twisting him around so his back were fully pressed to the door, the momentum of his motion closing it with a loud slam.

It took him about two seconds before his army training kicked in and he struggled against the tight grip, only to widen his eyes at the pale fingers burying in his woollen jumper.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" he managed to say, surprised of how rough his voice sounded.

He looked up at the man's face and met his usually clear blue eyes. Right now they were dark and deep and scary. Sherlock's pupils were way too dilated to be just a light effect. John felt his heartbeat increase significantly, and his breathing had become quite irregular.

"John," Sherlock chanted in a whisper, leading his hand to John's face.

"What are you doing?" John asked shockingly, as he jerked his face away from Sherlock's touch.

He noticed the slight squirm of disapproval in the detective's features. Sherlock didn't respond, instead he gracefully changed his grip on John's left arm and slid it against the door until it was pressed under his hand, just above the doctor's head. Then he stepped forward, pressing his long lean body against John's, bowing his head down to meet his eyes.

"Sherlock, this is not funny," John said trying to sound harsh, yet failing miserably. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Seriously, let go of me."

He was too bloody aware of Sherlock's figure against his own, the tension building on his lower half. _This is so not the time for that! For Christ's sake!_ He whined internally, still too shocked to make a move. What was wrong with Sherlock?

"You said you cared about me," the detective said at length, breathing out every word so each one sounded like a murmur, a whisper, a prayer.

John nodded. "Yes, I did, didn't I?" he mentally slapped his face for being so reckless with his words earlier today. "So what? It's my job to care about you. I'm a doctor, so I care, and you're my best mate, so, by extension, I care about you."

And there it was. The Cheshire Cat grin made its way, yet again, to Sherlock's lips, and John had to count to ten very slowly so he would resist the temptation of kissing it off his face. He forced his eyes to shut, closing the direct contact to the taller man's insufferably perfect features. _Breathe you fool!_ A voice in his head shouted, and John actually noticed that he was holding his breath. Soon he realized that closing his eyes was a big mistake.

"_My John_," Sherlock breathed into his ear. His lips moving so closely that John could almost feel their touch on his skin.

He felt the scent of Sherlock, the heat of Sherlock, the body of Sherlock. Another shiver made its way through John's spine and he exhaled loudly, trying to focus on ending this whatever that his flatmate was playing. Only then Sherlock's words really started to register in his forever one-step-behind brain. '_My John'? What?_ He opened his eyes and stared at the long pale neck just close enough for a bite. He fought the urge of brushing his lips through the fair surface.

"Let me go," John said, proud of the steady tone in his voice.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" the detective asked pulling away from John's ear and locking their eyes.

"Very much so."

"How very interesting," Sherlock said leaning two inches forward. "May I know why?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you're invading my personal space?" John asked sarcastically.

"I've invaded it before and you didn't seem to mind then," Sherlock pointed out. "So, why? Why, John? Why do you _really_ want me release you?"

"Because, Sherlock, I swear to God that if you don't, I will lose what little rests of my self-control, I will pin you down, I will rip your clothes off and fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a whole fucking month," John answered hoarsely looking deep in Sherlock's gaze. "Get. Off. Me. Now."

John felt satisfied at the surprised look on Sherlock's features, just to mentally slap himself again at what he'd just said. _What the fuck, Watson? Are you high or something? You STUPID git!_ He noticed that Sherlock had loosened the grip on him and as soon as he felt it, he ducked under his arm and went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.

**...**

Sherlock could hear the sound of fist on brick, followed by a moan, over and over again. He calmly sat down on the couch, pressing his palms together and resting his elbows on his knees. Words still fussing around that brilliant brain of his.

The thing is, Sherlock wanted to make up for John. He wanted to _talk_ to him about what happened in the coffee shop earlier and ease the tension between them. When he arrived and didn't see John on his chair, as he thought he would, he pretty much panicked. Then he noticed the still hot tea on the arm-rest and the lame American film that was presenting on the telly. It was about a man called John who had been to war and got shot, and it rang a very loud bell.

He called for _his_ John. He called for him over and over again, entering each and every room of the flat to see where he was. Then he glanced at the telly again. 'John' was having a fight with a girl. Something about 'you promised you would wait', or something, and a sharp weird pain shot through Sherlock's chest. When the door to the flat opened, he just couldn't help himself. He wanted to be sure, he needed to be sure, he _had_ to be sure that _his _John was there for him and that he hadn't left him after their disagreement. Unfortunately that didn't really work as expected, and instead of solving things, Sherlock had the dreadful sensation that he just made them worse.

"I'm going out. I need... air," John announced after spending the last ten minutes punching the wall.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to him and glanced at his left hand only to confirm that it was bruised and bloody. "Are you going to take long?" he asked before he was able to stop the words to flow from his lips.

"Oh, I will return," John said with a humourless laugh. "_Eventually_."

And with that he went out of the door, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts, for the third time that day.

_I will assume he's still angry at me, then._ Sherlock thought, releasing the breath he didn't know was holding. Seeing John so infuriated with him disturbed him more than he would imagine. Furthermore, being as close to John as he had been had had some surprisingly powerful repercussions over his own body. But what truly startled him were John's words. Sherlock recalled each one perfectly clearly, the way John looked at him with his dark gaze, the way each word hissed out of his lips, penetrating through his ears and going straight to his, now aching, groin. It was like he was floating, like he was trapped inside a dream where he couldn't pinch his arm to wake up.

Maybe the fact that he was... no, he would not think of it. He couldn't face how weak he was, how miserably he had failed. That would be the end of him. If John knew— _NO!_ His mind shouted. That wasn't even an option. If John even _thought_ about it, Sherlock would die; well maybe not literally, but one never knows. _Since when have I become so dependent of his presence?_

Instead of rumbling around all this fuss and confusion, Sherlock decided to press the _stand by_ button on his hard drive and shake those thoughts away. John would come back and then all would be well. He grasped the Gonzaga's case folder (or _Family Affairs_, as John would certainly put on his dreadful blog) and went over the crime scene photographs again. They had caught _this_ bandit, but Moriarty was still out there and every detail could be crucial.

* * *

><p>AN: Chapters are getting bigger and bigger. And I just can't help it! Oh yeah... references from the film _Dear John _(which I don't own) and blah blah blah... anyways. Please Review! Let me know what you think and stuff... you know, for charity. Exciting things are going to happen in the next chapter! Promise!

*Bloo*


	5. What's Up, Doc?

**Chapter 5: What's up, Doc?**

John woke up with a runny nose. He knew that spending three hours wandering around London with negative temperatures and nothing more but a t-shirt and a leather jacket would have consequences, but at the time, he needed it, and so he didn't even bother with thinking of the weather.

Now he regretted it, of course, as he regretted all those hours he spent awake two days ago. Since the moment he woke up until he got to bed, if he could, he would simply press the button and delete it all. Unfortunately it wasn't going to be that simple; it would never be that simple considering his current lifestyle. He rubbed the heels of his hands on his eyes and pushed the blanket away to sit up. His head was feeling heavy and he couldn't breathe through his nose so he groaned in frustration before standing up and sliding his feet inside the warm slippers.

As he started to descend the steps to the kitchen, he decided that the day would occur as if nothing had happened. He would talk with Sherlock just like he did every day and he would never mention the snapping on the coffee shop or the pinning against the door incident, or the fact that he lied to him about the motel explosion. He wouldn't forget it though, but he was just too tired to get mad, and two days without saying a single word seemed enough punishment, seeing as Sherlock _hated_ to be ignored.

As usual Sherlock was already up. He was sitting on the couch, leaning over a big tome on top of the coffee table. His brows were furrowed in a deep frown that seemed to soften when he noticed John's presence.

"Morning," John said, his voice altered due to the stuffy nose.

"John," Sherlock responded in a greeting, still not lifting his eyes from the stupidly heavy book.

John turned the kettle on, choosing to drink a very hot coffee instead of his usual morning tea. Then with a yawn he turned to the sitting room.

"Coffee?" he offered.

Sherlock seemed completely unaware to the fact that John had even spoken.

"Tea?" John tried again. When no answer came he folded his arms over his chest and sighed. "Just the regular cup of venom with the worm in it, then? Right-o!"

That seemed to work. "We don't have venom at the flat. At least not at the moment," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

"Oh I wouldn't say that. I'm pretty sure that whoever dared to drink a sip of your floating phallus vinegar wouldn't live to tell the tale," John said opening the fridge door and trying not to look at the staring heads.

"Yes, true," Sherlock said leisurely. "Coffee then, please. Oh, and I'll skip the worm. I'm not hungry yet."

John chuckled and looked intently at the fridge. "Where's the milk?"

He heard the sound of a turning page. "It's gone, John. Did you think it would be just sitting there waiting for you for all eternity?"

"Well, not for all eternity, but for at least twelve hours. I bought milk yesterday! Did it evaporate or something? And where are the butter biscuits? I bought those yesterday too," John said, a slight tone of annoyance and frustration showing behind the stuffy nose voice. "It's like Santa freakin' Claus had a bloody buffet over my shopping during the night," he murmured.

"Where's that coffee?" Sherlock asked.

"In the cup."

"And where is that cup?"

"In my hand, travelling across the kitchen to meet you right away," John said crossing the sitting room and putting Sherlock's mug down by the tome. "Black, two sugars. Any more requests? Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Sherlock looked up, and tilted his head to a side. John mimicked his movement. "I am sorry," Sherlock said.

That he wasn't expecting. John took one step back to have a better look at his flatmate. "What?"

"You asked me if I had anything to tell you, so I assumed you wanted an apology for my behaviour towards you the day before yesterday."

John opened his mouth but closed it immediately, not knowing what to say. Then he opened it again. "Actually I was referring to a simple 'Thank you for the coffee, John', but apologies accepted nonetheless."

"So... we good?"

"Yes, I think so," John said sipping on his cup. "What's that all about anyway?" he asked waving a hand towards the book.

"I'm trying to connect the notes to the murders," Sherlock answered with a huff.

"The notes? What notes?"

"The Hebrew notes! The '_Shalom Aleichem'_ notes that were near the two bodies!" Sherlock snapped running his hand through his thick dark curls.

"But I thought you already solved that case," John said walking to the window and peeking outside to check the weather.

"I did. But the notes..."

He wasn't angry or frustrated. No, he sounded like he was desperate. There was something that was clearly linked to both murders, and yet didn't make any sense! Sherlock wasn't happy with catching the bad guy if he hadn't tied up all loose ends. What mattered to him was not the capture of the felon (well obviously that was important, though not the essential), but the cracking of logistics and putting each piece of the puzzle together. Right now he had two pieces that clearly fitted but it was like they belonged to another completely different puzzle.

John looked back from Sherlock to the dark grey sky and hoped it wasn't going to rain until he got home. Apparently he had yet another visit to pay to Tesco's. _I'll buy milk supply for a whole year! And if it happens to magically evaporate I will hunt down Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and the bloody Tooth Fairy if I have to, to have my milk back._

"Can I help?" he asked before going back to his room to get dressed.

"Yes," Sherlock said handing him a paper full of his almost illegible calligraphy.

"Al-right," John muttered looking at the list with a scowl. "Anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head and turned another page of the book. John shrugged and decided to hurry up before it started to rain.

Shopping used to be something John didn't mind to do. It was often an excuse to have some time away from Sherlock and his crazy experiments, as well as having time to himself. It was almost therapeutic, not in a 'crazy teenager just got dumped' kind of way, of course. But the one part he really hated was the final encounter with the chip and pin machine. Every day the machine decided to play funny with him, inventing something new to test his patience.

As he was walking down the corridors, carrying the shopping basket on the curve of his elbow in a Little Red Riding Hood fashion, he decided that if the machine started to taunt him mercilessly as it did almost every single time, he would be more than pleased to play a little of that 'Whack-a-machine' game. He grinned at the thought. _Yes, that would be even more therapeutic than the shopping itself._

John finally gathered the five cartons of milk (he wasn't going to risk it that time), and as he went to the check-out section he started to feel a slight pain in his chest, along with a unusual rising of his inner temperature. It didn't need his medical expertise to know he was getting sick-_er_. A chill ran down his back, contrasting violently with the warmth of his body. _I knew I should've been careful. Now I'm the one getting the flu. How great is that?_

Much to his relief, the machine was being surprisingly friendly. When he gathered the bags, he muttered a "Thank you," before picking up the piece of paper Sherlock had handed him before he went out to do the shopping. Next stop – Bart's. _But why the hell does he want a piglet's head and a cow's liver? No Watson, you don't really want to know._ He warned himself.

**...**

"Come on, think! There's got to be a connection!"

Outside the rain was pouring violently, flashes of light illuminating the dim room as furious roars of thunder made their way through the silent air. Sherlock Holmes was mostly oblivious to the fact that out there, just in the other side of a thin layer of brick and an even thinner one of glass, a very loyal and very angry John Watson was working his butt off to fetch him the items of Sherlock's list of bizarre stuff to bring to the flat.

_Since you're already out there, bring me sulphuric acid._

–_SH_

Sherlock put away his phone and concentrated back on the paper in front of him. It read _Shalom_ _Aleichem_ in delicate Hebrew calligraphy. Very fine and delicate lines made by the most expensive pen ever made. Much probably written by a woman, what, once again, didn't make any sense at all. Nothing on the case gave much relevance to the notes. They were supplementary, just a decoration to the crime scene, not essential to solving the crime. And yet, the detective was finding them most intriguing. Deep inside his exceptionally trained brain, he knew it meant something. He even hoped it would connect the whole thing to Moriarty. _Hope_... such a strange concept to him, such an alien feeling to distract him from the usual boredom and frustration.

Downstairs the door clanged close and heavy steps started to climb up, followed by the annoying sound of plastic bags and a couple of sneezes.

"Tone it down, will you? I'm trying to think and you are making it hard for me to focus," he said impatiently to the new comer.

"Sorry," muttered John with a hoarse voice, putting the bags down in the kitchen and sliding the doors closed to ease the noise while he put everything in place.

Sherlock was honestly waiting for something a little more hostile than _sorry_, so he found himself surprised that John could still surprise him. Since two days ago, John had been behaving strangely with him. It was like he was disappointed and had given up on him, and that, once again, woke a whole new feeling that Sherlock couldn't quite identify, but he knew enough to categorize it as a bad one. _How do they do it? How do people cope with all this heavy sensations? It makes me insane!_

The doors opened again to reveal a very tired looking John.

"Sherlock, is your phone working correctly?"

"Yes, my phone is working just fine. Why?" Sherlock's annoyance was very distinct on his voice.

"Both Lestrade and Mycroft called _me_ to talk to _you_. I think you should give—" John's words were interrupted by a heavy coughing and he flew one hand to the wall not to lose balance, "—give them a call. It might be important," he managed to finish with a very rough voice.

Sherlock noticed the slender panting and the doctor's sweaty forehead. He was getting a fever. "You alright?" he asked, sounding completely nonchalant.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just going to rest upsta—" again his statement was broke, this time by a much more violent cough than before, and Sherlock stiffened with the vision of John so vulnerable. "I'm upstairs if you need anything," he finally said making his way out of the sitting room.

Sherlock felt... what was the word, again? Oh, yes, _concerned_, is it? He felt like he needed to do something for John, but he wasn't a doctor and the vast knowledge he had in the chemistry field wasn't going to be of any help now. That was so frustrating. What could he do to make John feel better?

Suddenly a thought came across his mind and he smiled. Oh yes, it might work just fine.

**...**

John was feeling like utter shit. His head hurt, his throat was sore and he had a pain on his chest like he had never felt before. It wasn't just the usual heaviness caused by the simple thought of Sherlock, no, it was actual physical pain. His lungs didn't seem to want to cooperate with the essential breathing the rest of his body demanded and that was delaying the distribution of oxygen to his brain, causing massive low pressure and embarrassing dizziness.

He undressed his wet clothes and wondered about having a nice warm shower before laying down. He knew it would do him well, so he quickly picked up his blue towel (since the red one had been shamefully spoiled for the sake of a good wank), and went to take his bath.

Ten minutes later John returned to the dark comfort of his room, his hair was dripping over his bare chest and he ran the towel through his head, drying most of it. He dressed on a thin pair of red briefs and his comfy grey t-shirt, and laid down in bed, fetching the box of tissues from his nightstand draw. Then he covered his increasingly warm body with two woollen blankets and closed his eyes, hoping to fall asleep as soon as possible. After another access of hardcore coughing, he rolled to his side and lifted his knees to his chest. _ Oh the joys of being a doctor._

Music.

John could hear it, like a soft angelic melody travelling from... downstairs? Hallucinations, already? Sure the fever wasn't that high yet. He was positively sure that he wasn't sleeping, so it couldn't be a dream either. Where had he heard that melody before? It was known and it made him feel relaxed. He didn't push the thoughts though. John decided he would enjoy it, whether it was a figment of his imagination or not.

Feeling his chest burn, he embraced his knees and curled more into a ball. He heard the fearless clap of the thunder roar through the calm, quiet street, and he found himself wishing upon a, well, a thunder, that the angel playing that beautiful tune would one day hold him in his arms with the same warmth and passion he was devoting to his music. _Oh fevers make you think of the most absurd nonsense, eh?_

John smiled and relaxed back on his pillow, slipping into a sound and peaceful slumber.

**...**

Sherlock smiled as the springs of John's bed stopped screeching, announcing that the good doctor was finally asleep. He closed his eyes, paying attention to the pressure he applied to the bow as it softly brushed through the strings. God it has been a very long time since he actually _played_ the violin. Sherlock really missed it. Relaxing a bit, he leaned back in his chair and just kept playing, making up for the lost time.

He could say that the 'feel better' present was a success. The sound echoed in the otherwise quiet room, and Sherlock thought that if he focused just hard enough, he could hear the deep rhythmic breathing of the sleeping doctor upstairs, so different from the harsh needy panting John showed when he was being pinned against the door.

Sherlock shivered at the thought of that incident. If one asked him, he would say he didn't know what went through him. It was like a superior force had taken control over his own body and _made_ him do it. He didn't regret it though. Oh no, absolutely no regrets. He enjoyed it, very much so. What was odd, considering the obvious sociopathic nature of his being and the revulsion towards any kind of sexual, physical contact he had always shown. Once again John was the exception. _His_ exception.

Thinking of it, it was hard for him to imagine how people could find sex a motivator to pleasure. What was it about naked, sweaty bodies rubbing against each other in a nauseating exchange of body fluids that made people so excited? Sherlock's feelings about the matter crossed the line from dubious to absolutely disgustied, and yet... and yet... Yet here he was, imagining himself in that exact situation with John. _Only_ with John.

He questioned himself about what would've happened if he hadn't let go of John when he asked him to. What was it that made him loosen the grip? Would John keep to his words and ravish his body? More important than that – what was it that made him say all those things? He replayed his words on his head and realized that, if the good doctor had actually done as he said, Sherlock wouldn't have minded.

_Mostly intriguing_. Sherlock thought. His thoughts started to tangle in his always so organized head in a most distracting, frustrating, confusing fashion. He remembered the day when he broke his sutures for the first time, while John was in the bath. He recalled the image of his bare arse when Sherlock broke into his room. He _knew_ what John had been doing. He knew as soon as he saw the towel on the floor, and the mere thought of it made him want to do the same. Ever since, he broke the sutures four more time, on purpose, so he could feel _his_ doctor taking care of him. Feeling those soft, experienced hands smoothly running against his skin. Of course, since John was an idiot, he wouldn't understand the real reason behind the self inflicted pain, and blamed it on Sherlock's childish behaviour when it came to boredom.

He was brought back to the present with the sound of his violin falling to the floor. He opened his eyes shocked that he fell asleep without even noticing it. He needed to something about the entire John situation soon, or he would go mad.

Making a decision, he got up and softly walked to his room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock had promised himself he wouldn't do it unless it was strictly necessary, and since the last time was precisely when the whole incident happened, he was a little reluctant with doing it again so soon, but he felt like this was the only thing that could help him now. He _needed_ it. He needed to think clearly again. He needed his brain to be clear, to be working again, so he kneeled down by his wardrobe and looked for the blue package taped underneath it, finding it at the first try.

There it was – the solving to all his problems. Sherlock eyed the syringe with the already prepared dosage of his favourite cerebral stimulant. He worked his belt off and pushed his trousers down to his ankles, knowing that if he injected on the femoral artery, there was no way in hell that John would know. He tied a rubber band around his thigh as a tourniquet and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the wardrobe.

_It's time to make a choice, Sherlock._

He opened his eyes and looked down at the syringe, ready to penetrate that beautiful arterial line that was so easily shown through his pale skin.

_John won't be here forever..._

He hesitated. Bloody hell, he _needed_ it! Why was his brain suddenly developing a conscience? That wasn't supposed to happen. Sherlock was reason, logic, brainwork. John was conscience, sentiment, heart. _Heart and brains..._ two halves of a whole.

_What is it that really matters to you?_

"Shut up," he growled deeply. His hands were shaky. This used to be so easy!

_What is it that's really important, eh Sherlok?_

"Shut up! Just. Shut. Up." he snapped. "Go away! Leave me alone! I need to think! I need..." his words trailed off, leaving the room unbearably silent.

_He's a doctor. And bloody good one too. Do you think that he won't notice?_

"He's an idiot. Just like everyone else is," Sherlock roared, pressing the tip of the needle against his flesh. A dark red pearl formed almost instantaneously. His finger rested on the base of the plunger and again he hesitated before pressing it down.

_What would John think if he saw you like this?_

He decided to ignore his conscience voice (that still sounded an awful lot like Mycroft's) and finally pressed the plunger down, flushing the content of the barrel into his own system. Then he released the tourniquet and closed his eyes tightly, hoping to open them and see clarity.

Hours had passed, or maybe just minutes, what difference did it make? Sherlock was there, sprawled on the floor against the dark wood wardrobe with his trousers pushed all the way down to his feet, and he was feeling good. _Take that you miserable feelings!_ He gloated and risked opening one eye. It seemed that the room was bigger and brighter.

He smiled.

The faint roar of thunder and the sound of John coughing upstairs almost didn't register. His mind began to focus on what he considered to be the most important thing to him – _the work_. He started to pick up old information about his archenemy (no, no, not Mycroft, the other one) and quickly stood up, and hid his effects.

He made his way to the sitting room and sat heavily on the couch, only to notice that John was sitting on his usual chair, curled up in a ball and drinking warm milk, by the scent of it.

"Feeling better?" he said, careful not to meet John's eyes, knowing that his pupils would be far too dilated.

"No," John said shortly, embracing himself.

John was shivering violently and yet his complexion was glistening in sweat. He was pale as Sherlock had never seen him and his hair was sticking to his forehead. Sherlock looked again, this time paying attention to the actual _colour_ of John's hair.

"Erm... John?" he started, wondering if what he was seeing was a secondary effect from the drugs.

"What?"

"Your hair is... well... different."

John rolled his eyes and pulled the blanket tighter around him.

"Sherlock stop it, please. I'm not in the mood for jokes now. God you can be so bloody inconvenient at times," John said trying to hold back another wave of hard coughing.

"I am not joking," the detective said seriously. "Your hair is pinkish."

"What the... Are you high or something?" John asked.

Sherlock froze to his seat. How did John know? He had been so careful! He saw the doctor get up from his chair and step towards the mirror above the hearth.

"John I'm—"

"Bloody hell!" John tipped his head to a side. "Oh, God Sherlock. Is this your doing? It is isn't it? My hair is pink! PINK!" the shout came with a new wave of coughing.

John fell to his knees holding his chest as in his body a battle between coughing and breathing was becoming kind of critical. Automatically, Sherlock got up to assist John.

"Stay where you are," John managed to say. "It can be contagious. I don't want you to get sick too."

"Want me to call Sarah?" Sherlock asked.

"She's still not talking to me," John said quietly, resting his hands on his thighs.

"Because you said that no matter what you would always pick me?" the detective tried not to grin in satisfaction. "People can be so sentimental," he added with a dismissive tone.

John ran a hand through his hair and got up to sit on his chair again.

"I should probably have told you that I borrowed your shampoo bottle to conduct one of my experiments," Sherlock said after a while.

"You're an idiot."

"And you should be in bed," Sherlock said with a smirk.

John nodded, trying not to use words. He motioned the pictures on the detectives hand with an enquiry look, but Sherlock wasn't looking, so he had to recur to his voice.

"Still the notes?"

"What? Oh, yes," Sherlock said quickly.

"Let me see them," John asked.

Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that John speaking through low whispers was making him feel very uncomfortable. He got up and handed the photos to John.

"A pen too, please?" John asked looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Panic. Sherlock quickly looked away and tossed him a pen. "What's your idea?"

"Well, you've been looking at the symbols," John said. "So I've been thinking—"

"Oh miracles do exist. Look at that, who knew?" Sherlock said sharply.

John rolled his eyes and continued. "What if what you're looking for is not in the symbols?"

"Pardon?"

Sherlock watched John writing something on the photograph, his left hand shaking as he held the pen.

"For someone with your IQ I must say you're a bit slow today," said John. "Well, maybe it's just my very fertile imagination, but what if the message of the notes is not in the symbols but in the spelling of it? You know... like the _Da Vinci Code_ and stuff."

Sherlock sat down on his chair and looked at John. Was it possible that this _idiot_ was about to say something fairly intelligent? So lack of sleep and sickness were factors that made him think properly? God! How Sherlock longed for answers.

"Anagrams, Sherlock. What if you have to spell it to our alphabet and begin from there?"

"Anagrams..."

"Yes, like rose and sore, reside and... desire. Well, uh... you know..."

Sherlock could swear he saw the doctor blush. His tone was literally matching his hair now, and it was adorable. Wait, adorable? Bloody drugs weren't strong enough! Sherlock decided to ignore the doctor's sudden stammering.

"So you think that we can regroup the letters to achieve a new word?

"Or a new set of words. It can be a name, or a place or something. Anything is better than nothing at all."

"That's going a bit too far, don't you think?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I'm sure it's better than what you've got!"

"Oh is it? What do I have, then?"

"I'm going to take a gamble here and say that you've got a fist full of bugger-all," John's eyes were blazing. "You have nothing to go on, and if you really want to find Moriarty then you have to widen your chances. Wasn't it you who said that when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how—"

"Mad it might seem, must be the truth. Yes, I do say that. But it doesn't mean that—"

"No, it doesn't. But do you have any better ideas, Sherlock? Because if you do, I'm sure you could share it with the rest of the class. Mr Skull and I are dying of curiosity here... well... _I_ am dying of curiosity, Mr Skull is just growing roots there."

Sherlock exhaled noisily. John did have a point. If he wanted to catch Moriarty... wait a minute...

"So now you do believe it was _him_?" Sherlock asked. "You actually believe that _he_'s alive?"

"Who else, then? And you can say his name, you know? His not Lord Voldemort or anything."

"Who?" Sherlock asked with a genuinely confused look on his face.

"Harry Potter? The Dark Lord, Harry's archenemy, the one who— oh God. Never mind," John sighed, picking the pen again. "Alright. So, what can _Shalom Aleichem_ be transformed into?"

"This is rubbish," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Well, can't blame a bloke for trying! And if you have nothing better do than sit there and be pretty– uh... pretty... much... useless," John stammered, "go do your experiment thingies to make me a blonde again."

Sherlock huffed and tried to focus on what John was murmuring.

"... and the H from there... oh, alright so the M goes here? No, there..." John lifted his head. "I got Holmes," he said.

"Good for you."

"Always a bloody rainbow, you are. You know this could be a lot quicker if you were helping."

"Yes I know that. But I'm not to waste my time with play pretend."

"God help me," John mumbled. "Alright, so... try again... two sets of words, maybe a name? A very odd name? Oh boy. Ma... Me... Mi... no, Mech... uh bloody hell this is harder then I thought. Mecheila? Is that even a name?"

"What did you just say?" Sherlock said getting up and looking into John's notes.

"Oh, got your attention, did I?" John asked, still speaking low not to tease his sore throat. "I said Mecheila, which is stupid, because I know Michaela exists, but that's that. I suppose there are no Mecheilas in the world."

"Dear John, wrong you are," Sherlock picked up his blackberry and tapped on it for a little while before bringing the device to his ear. "Mycroft. Yes it's me. 221b when you can. And by when you can I mean _now_," he said quickly.

"Alright, what am I missing?"

"You, Doctor Watson, are brilliant," Sherlock was looking proudly at John's pale figure. "Do you want tea? Coffee? Milk? Toffee? Anything?"

"So I said something right, and you give me a treat? What do you take me for, your dog? Fuck off Sherlock," John said tightening the grip on the blanket. "Tea would be lovely, thanks."

Sherlock smiled and rushed to kitchen to put the kettle on. Turning around he leaned his hips against the countertop and folded his arms to his chest. He could spot the pinkish tone of John's hair and the tip of his ears. John was looking at something specifically.

"Sherlock?" the doctor called. "Is it me, or is your violin out of place?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, usually it's there," John said pointing to the case near Sherlock's chair, "But now it's there," he repeated the motion, this time pointing at the sofa. "I can't recall you playing it— Oh, wait. That tune. The tune I heard before I fell asleep, was it—?"

Fortunately Sherlock didn't have to answer. Two soft knocks sounded and John made a motion to get up and answer, but Sherlock's long legs provided him with a fairly good advantage.

"Hello, dear brother," Mycroft said with a sly smile. "What do I owe the honour of being summoned to your nest?"

"Cut it, Mycroft. I called you on business terms. Don't think I'm even remotely pleased with your presence here," Sherlock said bitterly as he strolled back to the kitchen.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. You don't look very healthy," Mycroft said. "Did you do something to your hair? Pink doesn't suit you. If you're trying to go wild I would recommend bright blue."

"Yes, it's nice to see you too," John said. "I better go now—"

"You stay," said Sherlock handing him a cuppa. "After all, John, you were the one who found out about her."

"I'm not even going to ask," John leaned back again and sipped his tea.

Clearly not wanting Mycroft anywhere near him, Sherlock sat on his chair and motioned his brother to sit on the couch. The latter twitched his eyebrow but did as told.

"How long, Mycroft?" Sherlock said simply.

"I'm afraid you have to be a bit more specific."

"Oh, you know very well what I mean. How long have you known about Moriarty's whereabouts?"

John raised his head and looked sharply at Mycroft. "What?"

"Long enough to start an investigation."

"An investigation, Mycroft? And what about telling _me_ about it? You know _I've_ been investigating him!" Sherlock snapped standing up.

"Oh, don't worry. I've got my best agent working on the case," Mycroft's expression was completely aloof.

"No," Sherlock let himself fall back on the chair. "You didn't. Why her? Of all minions you have, why assign _her_?"

"You seem to be experiencing a difficulty to assimilate new data, little brother. I just said that she's my best agent."

"You could've told ME!" Sherlock yelled furiously.

"I have to protect you, Sherlock!"

"What makes you think I need protection from _you_? You're risking your sister instead! How's that clever? Have you completely lost your mind?"

John looked now at Sherlock. "Sister? Sherlock, what are you—"

"He doesn't know about her. It's an advantage. For all Moriarty knows, I'm the only sibling you've got. And I would highly recommend that you wouldn't go look for her. I will arrange a manner to get the folder into your hands, but that's all you will know for now, Sherlock." Mycroft twirled his umbrella as he got up from the couch.

"I didn't finish yet, Mycroft!" Sherlock started.

"Oh, but you did," the elder Holmes said smiling again. "See you very soon," he went to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. "I would recommend going to the hospital, Doctor Watson, before that infection gets any worse."

And then he disappeared through the door.

"Bastard. That bloody bastard!" Sherlock was rumouring furiously.

"Sister, Sherlock?" John questioned, raising his eyebrows. "You have a sister? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't ask, John," Sherlock answered shortly.

"But— I don't get it. How—"

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock cut raising his eyes at John.

"Like shit. I've got a bloody fever, and my lungs don't want to function and... A_ sister, seriously_?"

"Ow hell! What's wrong with me having a sister? So what? You have one yourself! What's so odd about that? Why do people assume that just because I'm not a people's person, I don't have a family?"

"Alright, sorry," John said softly before a heavy wave of coughing assaulted him again.

Sherlock got up automatically and tried to hold John by the shoulders, but the doctor's body was shaking so violently that it made the task pretty impossible.

"John," he called as he tried to stabilize his friend's body.

John tried to push him away and Sherlock remembered that John said something about being contagious. _I couldn't care less_, he thought with some level of surprise. He noticed the doctor was having trouble breathing and his face was growing bluer. His heart jolted and he clasped his hands on John's upper arms. The coughing slowed down just enough to let John speak.

"I'm— fine," he tried.

"Oh, God," Sherlock breathed looking at John's lips and at the light grey fabric of his t-shirt. His eyes, always so controlled and blank were now swimming in fear. "John."

"What?" John was growing weaker by the second, his voice was hoarse.

Sherlock brushed his thumb along John's lower lip. "You are coughing blood."

* * *

><p>AN: Man! I've been busy writing! Yes...this chapter was too much fun to write. No, seriously I love to be a bitch sometimes. And Chappys growing longer and longer and longer... Tell me what you think, 'kay? (and yes...there's an allusion to Cabin Pressure, which I only noticed after writing it.)

Next: A Spoonful of Sugar (just a bridge)

*Bloo*


	6. A Spoonful of Sugar

**Chapter 6 – A Spoonful of Sugar**

Sherlock shoved his cold hands inside his trousers pockets and huffed impatiently. He was pacing around in St Bart's waiting room for God knows how long, flickering his eyes every so often to the door where John had disappeared to have his emergency surgery.

When he saw the sprays of John's blood on the hem of his soft cotton t-shirt and the crimson tone in the doctor's lips, he felt like the world was collapsing on him. He quickly made his way down to the cold street, not giving a damn if he had his coat on or not. Cab-hailer mode _on_, he waved his arm vividly at the first one he saw just coming around the corner. After asking the cabbie to wait, with a promise of a very generous tip, he rushed back upstairs and involved the doctor's fragile body in his own long coat and helped him get downstairs.

The whole trip from Baker Street to St Bart's seemed excruciatingly long, even more as Sherlock captured John's painful moans when the road presented them with irregularities that made the vehicle jump quite violently. Sherlock slipped one long arm around his best friend's shoulders and pulled him closer to try and stabilize his body.

When they arrived, the detective almost fell with the disappointment. So many people… it would be impossible for John to get treatment right away. He tried to call Molly and see if she could somehow help, but she didn't answer. Then he tried Mike Stamford and when his hopes were about to leave him, John had another coughing break-down. This time worse than before. There was so much blood… Sherlock's quick reflexes caught John before he hit the floor. The doctor was so exhausted, so weak.

One of the nurses that were nearby saw the scene and marked John as an urgent case. At that point it seemed like someone had clicked the fast forward button and the last thing Sherlock remembered was a Doctor and Nurse Convention around _his_ John and the tired look in his friend's eyes before he was taken away from his arms.

Hours later there he was, dying of boredom and concern and sure he was making a hole in the white tiles from his pacing. No news from John, and that was driving him insane! He considered, for several times now, calling Mycroft so he could pull some strings, but enduring his brother earlier was already painful, if he had to go through that again, he would be the one needing medical care.

Each time the double doors swung open to reveal a doctor, Sherlock stood still, hoping that someone had finally some news for him. As soon he realized that he was feeding false hopes, he started pacing again, and the cycle restarted. _Ow hell, John!_

He let himself fall into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and sighed noisily, running a hand in his face. Again the doors opened, but Sherlock didn't even glance in their direction this time. He knew, for experience, that whoever came through there wasn't going to come to talk to him.

_John's right. I need a hobby._ He decided, looking at the poor unfortunate souls around him in his situation. Not far from where he stood, an old woman and a little girl were chatting somewhat animatedly. The woman was knitting a blue and white scarf. _Regular visitors. The girl's father was admitted for stomach cancer, probably lung_— He refused to think of lung cancer. Coughing up blood was one the symptoms. What if John…? _No!_

He turned his head away to face the man sitting opposite to him. _Museum security guard. Suffers from heart condition. I'll give him a month, maybe less if he keeps on a fat-only diet._

The doors to the surgery wing opened again and Sherlock ignored it once more, paying attention to the new arrivals, a woman and her daughter. The little girl had a pink scarf covering her bald head. _Leukaemia. Maybe two months? Three at the most._ He guessed, looking rather affectionately at the little girl who returned the gaze. She smiled at him and waved her little hand. She couldn't be more than five years of age, and Sherlock's insides twisted. He looked at her _Hello Kitty_ bag and tried to decipher the engraving. Her name was Juliet Williams, and Sherlock couldn't help but freeze at the initials.

Juliet's eyes were sparkling and her smile, although weak, was genuine. When he saw her coming to him, he shifted uncomfortably on his sit. _What does she want?_ He glanced at the mother as if asking to put the leash on the kid. The woman smiled tenderly, looking at her little girl.

She stopped not to steps away from him, reached for something in her pocket and retrieved a flower-shaped hairpin. Her little hand tightened the grip around the pink coloured object and then she reached her hand forward, looking sheepishly at the floor below her feet. Sherlock wondered what the hell was he supposed to do, but then he realized that she was offering it to him. He allowed himself a small smile and then lowered his head, as if giving her permission to clasp the pin in his curls.

The look of surprise and gratitude the girl gave him was almost heartbreaking. She happily ran her hand through Sherlock's fringe and held some of his dark locks with the flower-pin. With a giggle, she brushed her small, warm fingers through his cheek and turned away to go back to her mother.

Sherlock was startled. It wasn't like him to be this _human_. _John's_ _fault_. He looked up and his eyes locked with the brown ones of Juliet's mother. She was holding her daughter lovingly, resting her chin on top of the girl's head. "Thank you," she mouthed to Sherlock, the first teardrop running down her cheek. He returned with a small nod.

The doors opened once more and Sherlock closed his eyes and tossed his head back, almost hitting it against the wall. He would grow old in that chair, he was going to form roots there and turn into stone and become a pagan sculpture of adoration. 'The man who waited'. _God, how cliché_.

"Mr Holmes?" someone called.

He jerked his eyes open and stood up. The doctor was still on his scrubs, and the white mask was hanging loose on his neck. Those three seconds between the man walking towards him and actually starting to talk about John's condition seemed like an eternity. Sherlock analysed his face, trying to capture any sign of distress. Nothing. John was still alive then. He heard a sigh of relieve and only then he realized it came from him.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, yes. How's John?" he asked, cutting directly to the point.

The other man flinched a little with the abrupt approach, but he soon composed himself and made a motion for Sherlock to sit down. The latter did as told and the doctor followed his motion, taking the sit besides Sherlock.

"I'm Doctor Farmer. I was the responsible for the—"

"Is John alright?" Sherlock repeated cutting off his words. "Just tell me how he is."

The doctor sighed and nodded. "Is in post-op care and might be up soon."

"Can I see him?"

"Are you family?"

Sherlock snorted. He hated when people responded with questions. "I'm the closest thing he has to a family, I can assure you that," he said narrowing his gaze. "What was wrong with him?"

The doctor's shoulders visibly relaxed at the opportunity of talking about something he actually felt familiar with. "It seems that Doctor Watson had developed a blood clot in his left lung, probably side effect from the gunshot wound he received whilst in combat."

"He was shot in the shoulder," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes. And the human body works in mysterious ways, Mr Holmes. The violence of impact could have caused the formation of the clot and…" the words trailed of as the doctor's eyes flickered to the pink flower pin in Sherlock's hair.

Noticing his hesitation, and sincerely trying hard not to strangle the man, Sherlock exhaled and rolled his eyes. "Lucky charm," he said impatiently. "Go on."

"Well, uh, where was I? Oh, right. The blood clot seems to have ruptured when John—"

"It's Doctor Watson to you, _doctor_," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Oh, okay. Uh, as I was trying to say, the blood clot ruptured with the force of his coughing due to the previous cold. It's amazing how a supposed army doctor can be so slovenly about such things. I'm surprised he's even alive."

Sherlock eyed him with such venom that Doctor Farmer actually recoiled in his seat. "That slovenly man, Mr Farmer, was brave enough to do what you didn't have the guts to do. While he was in Afghanistan fighting for peace and for a better world and getting _shot_; while he ran around London stopping serial killers and rapists and possibly every social criminal that could very well be a threat to you and your family, you stayed here, living your miserable life, cutting people open, getting sued for medical negligence and having an affair with the head nurse of the Paediatrics department. Your wife knows, by the way," Sherlock smiled maliciously and leaned forwards. "So, tonight, when you're in bed getting ready for one long night of undisturbed sleep, don't forget that this slovenly doctor spent many, many sleepless ones so you could have your peace."

There was a brief silence and then the very flushed doctor stood up, his hands trembling slightly. "Right," he said, his voice weak. "He must be waking up by now, so, why don't you… uh, just… follow me."

Sherlock's grin widened as he got up and slowly walked behind the man, his mind completely focused on seeing John. They stopped outside room 318, and through the window he could spot John's strawberry-blonde head resting in a pile of big fluffy pillows. He had a tube down his throat, but Sherlock was sure that when John woke up, the nurse would remove it. The monitors by his bed marked the slow rhythm of his heart.

"How long before he can come home?" asked Sherlock, resting his hand around the knob.

"We were able to stop the bleeding and close the wound without having to cut open. If he's lucky he can go home by the end of the week."

"_If_ he's lucky, doctor? This is John Watson, we're talking about. He went to Afghanistan, got shot and came back. He confronted _The Government_ and a maniac psychopath and survived a bomb explosion. I can assure you, doctor, he _will_ be home before the week ends," the detective said with an assuring smile.

The other man gave him a quick smile and nodded before turning away. Sherlock twisted the doorknob and entered the room, taking in the space around him.

It was a quiet well lit room and everything about it was annoyingly white. The cold tiles of the floor, the walls around him, the sheets of the bed, the nurse's robe, even John's own garments were white. It made him look like a ghost, adding his paleness from being sick.

"Can I turn off the lights?" Sherlock asked the woman who was now messing with John's IV.

She lifted her gaze and nodded. "Sure, the switch in right there, behind the door on your left-hand side," she said with a strong Scottish accent.

Sherlock murmured a shy _thank you_ and switched off the lights. _That's better, nice and dark._ He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, just listening to the steady rhythm of John's heart. Then he strolled forward, slowly approaching the bed.

The moon beams were breaking through the clear glass window, reproducing the pattern of the window frame on the floor and playing with the tone of John's hair, turning it almost silver. The soft, relaxed features of the still sleeping doctor didn't seem so pale and unhealthy in the dark.

Sherlock gazed at the nurse. She lit the bedside table lamp and started to work on the tube in John's throat.

"What are you doing?" He asked, trying to contain the panic. Was she trying to kill him?

"He's breathing on his own, now. When he wakes up he will fight the ventilation, and that could damage him further. He doesn't need this," she smiled and Sherlock relaxed visibly.

He walked to the side of John's bed, letting himself sit down by the chair, his eyes never leaving John's face. "You idiot," he murmured. "You had to get blood clot in the lung. I assume that a simple cold was just too mundane for you," he snorted at his words. "Such an idiot, you are, Doctor Watson," his words much less harsh behind the smile on his lips.

The nurse, Donna Macaulay as it was written in her tag, finished with the tubes and scribbled something on John's chart, before putting it down by the end of the bed. "He must be waking soon. Please call me when he does. Oh, and you have a… thing there…" she said pointing at her own head.

"Lucky charm," he replied returning his eyes to the good doctor.

"Oh," Donna breathed before leaving the room.

Sherlock said nothing. He just sat there, looking at the rising and falling of John's chest as his own lungs breathed for him. _It must been painful,_ he thought. His attention flew to the man's face when he noticed a slight stirring of his features. Soon John's hoarse whispers were filling the empty room.

"Sher…lock…" he called, still in his sleeping dizziness. "_Sherlock_."

The detective eyed him intently, trying to comprehend if he was awake or still out. "John, I'm here," he said softly.

"Sherlock," John repeated.

"Yes. Me. In here. With you. And I don't intend to leave any time soon," Sherlock assured.

The doctor's lids fluttered a bit before revealing a pair of dark, sleepy eyes. "Sherlock?" John called as conscience started to settle in.

"Hello, there," the baritone voice was surprisingly cheery. "How are you feeling?"

"Am I a blonde again?" John asked.

Sherlock laughed. It was a mix between relief and amusement. This man, this surprising, beautiful, daft man just woke up in a hospital bed after a blood clot ruptured in his lung, and his main concern was if he was a blonde? Sherlock curled his right hand around John's left and squeezed it.

"Strawberry-blonde, John," he said between breaths. "How are you feeling?" he repeated.

John turned his head slowly to face Sherlock. "Grey," he whispered.

Sherlock had the sensation that the doctor was talking to himself. Still he asked, "What?"

"Your eyes are grey. Usually they're light blue or green, but now they're grey. You're worried about something, what is it?" John murmured.

"I don't understand, John."

The doctor sighed. "Your eyes change colour according to your mood. Grey means boredom or anger or, in this case, worry. Green means impatience, desperation, confusion, focus; it's basically the colour you wear while entwined on a particularly difficult case. And then there's striking light blue, the thrill, the adrenaline, the cracking up of the puzzle, the contentment and joy of proving, once more, how clever you are," John scowled and sighed heavily.

Sherlock looked at him, his heart pounding violently on his chest. Would John ever stop surprising him? He had no idea of John's theories about Sherlock's eyes. He knew John stared at him a lot, but he never cared about it. Of course it only made sense, since Sherlock never talked about his feelings, that John would arrange a manner to read them in his body language. _The eyes are the mirrors to your soul. _He remembered.

"John..." Sherlock breathed.

"It hurts when I talk," John whispered. "And when I breathe. What happened?"

Sherlock tightened the grip on John's hand and slowly started to take him through the events of the evening. The doctor's eyes were closed, but he nodded now and then to let Sherlock know he was still with him, still listening to his deep soothing voice.

Surprisingly the only reaction to the news was a slight quirk of an eyebrow before he opened his eyes again, searching through the detective's face.

"Got yourself a lucky charm, I see," he said motioning with his head.

"No, John , it's my lucky— Oh, wait, yes. It _is_ my lucky charm."

"Suits you," John murmured, clenching his hand around Sherlock's and closing his eyes once more.

Silence fell in the cold room, and soon after, Sherlock could hear the slow rhythm of John's breathing. He pondered between leaving while he was asleep or just stay there with him. He disentangled his hand from John's, pushed the chair beneath him forwards and sat back down, holding the smaller hand in his again. Then he rested his head on the side of John's hip, paying attention to the quiet breathing. Sherlock fell asleep, with the feeling that he did the right choice, the first one in a very long time.

He woke up an hour or so later. It was close to dawn and Sherlock decided he should probably go back to 221b, have a shower, change his clothes, drink a coffee and then come back. With some luck he would return before John woke up.

So off he went, hailing a cab and stretching his back. Everything was hurting him. He hated to fall asleep in such uncomfortable manners. It was happening all the time.

Handing a fifty pound bill to the cabbie, Sherlock rushed out of the taxi not even worrying about keeping the change. Money was the least of his concerns now. Sherlock made his way silently through the stairs, careful not to wake up Mrs Hudson.

The door to his flat was open. Why was the door open? Sherlock looked around and his eyes locked with the dark chocolate ones of DI Lestrade.

"I can't," said Sherlock quickly, undressing his coat and unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. "I'm busy."

The DI laughed. "I can see that," he said. "Oh, well, the case was too trivial for you anyway."

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the older detective and shot him an inquiring look. "What are you still doing here, then?"

"How's John?" Lestrade sounded genuinely concerned.

"He's in bad shape but recovering well. What are you still doing here?" Sherlock repeated.

The DI shook his head in a defeated manner and reached for something in the coffee table. "Your brother Mycroft _intercepted_ me today while I was working on that _trivial_ triple homicide in Victoria Tower Gardens – seriously, Sherlock, you have a _brother_? – and he _persuaded_ me to hand you this," Lestrade was now holding a black coloured folder.

"So you too were kidnapped by my dear brother, eh?" Sherlock let out a bark of laughter and reached his hand so the DI could give him folder. He felt kind of stupid to be laughing alone, somehow laughing without John in the room didn't feel right.

"Yes, well I wouldn't call it _kidnapping_ exactly—"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you just said that someone went to you and drove you away from your workplace, clearly against your will, and _persuaded_ you to deliver me this," Sherlock said waving the pile of papers in his hand.

"Well yes, but—"

"Don't you have anything better to do, Inspector? Because I certainly have," Sherlock cut abruptly.

"I _did_ just say _triple murder_, though," Lestrade said.

"Actually you said 'triple _homicide'_, andpersuasion may work for you, but it doesn't work for me. I would suggest a search team in the Thames. You might be impressed of how ordinary people can be."

Lestrade shrugged and turned away. "Thank you Sherlock," he said before disappearing through the door.

The consulting detective breathed deeply and sat down John's chair, covering his shoulders with the neglected blanket John was wearing before they rushed out. With a grin he turned his attention to the files on his lap.

"What do you think of this?" he lifted his head, waiting for John's reply, but all he got was silence. A dark mood sank in his gut as he remembered that now John wouldn't be there for him. Sherlock pouted and looked at the skull on top of the hearth. "Looks like it's just you and me again." He closed his eyes and tried to think, but the day's events started to weigh on him and his mind softly drifted from conscience until the heaviness of his lids became too overwhelming. The files slipped from his hands as he fell asleep.

…

"I missed you so much, John!"

John stroked the soft curls of the head that was now buried in the curve of his neck. Delicate, cold hands brushed along John's cheeks and he tried to smile.

"I missed you too..." he said impatiently, his words breaking at the sight of Sherlock's icy-blue eyes, darting through him.

"Don't you ever scare me like this, ever again!"

"Alright, I promise I'll try. Now let go of me, Harry, I'm choking!" John snapped. "Hey there Sherlock!" He greeted giving him a genuine smile. A smile he was only able to give Sherlock and no one else.

Harry Watson pulled herself from John and looked back at the consulting detective. "You fucking bastard!" she almost yelled. "You bloody fucking wanker! I thought your job was to keep my brother safe! Does he look safe to you?"

"Language, Harry," John alerted rolling his eyes. "For God's sake, you're in a hospital!"

Sherlock stepped forward and reached out one hand to Harry. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Harriet."

John smiled as presented with the rare sight of Sherlock actually using the polite skills he had learned during childhood. He almost reminded him of Mycroft, but he soon shook that thought away. Harry got close to his flatmate and was insulting the living hell out of him. John sighed, but his body tensed when he heard Sherlock inhale deeply.

"And by the smells of it, I would say 2009 Chateau Latour. Not a good year," Sherlock said bitterly passing through Harry and reaching John's bed.

John's smile faded as he looked over Sherlock and spotted his sister's red features, her hand curling up in a fist.

"You—"

"Harry! That's enough, thank you. You should go home. Now!" John said before his sister could take action and knock the detective to the floor. She was small – even smaller than John – but she sure was tough. It was one of the few aspects the two Watson siblings shared.

Her face softened and she nodded at John with a very Watson smile. "I will come back when I can, I promise."

"Bye, Harry," John said shortly, beaming widely at his sister.

As soon as the door closed, John's smile faded and transformed into a deep frown. "Who the hell told _her_ where I was?"

"Mycroft. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. It could've been anyone," Sherlock said shifting awkwardly on his feet.

"Sorry about that," John said. He was far too used to apologize for Sherlock and Harry. If he earned a penny for every time he did so, his financial problems would be pretty much extinct. "She never dealt very well with hangovers."

Sherlock just nodded and sat down on the chair by John's bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Bored," came the short reply.

Sherlock snorted. "I can imagine."

"I'm so bloody tired of this place. I can't even feel my butt anymore! Everything is numb. No telly, no radio, no books, no newspapers, not even a bloody business card for distraction! I've been doing Origami with napkins!"

"Oh, God," Sherlock murmured, his tone sympathetic towards John. Origami was always a bad sign.

"Yes, tell me about it. That's just how bored I am."

"I can see that."

"And then unexpected visits keep popping up, like Harry, and Sally Donovan, and Lestrade, and even Mycroft! _Why_ _Mycroft_?" John exhaled in frustration. "I just want peace and quiet and I don't need visitors to tell me what I already know! It's like I'm five all over again with laryngitis and the only people that bother to show up are the nasty aunts and crazy-arse cousins who smell like old people. And the one person you want to see is almost never there. And then there's loneliness."

Silence. John rubbed the heels of his hands on his eyes and sighed, looking away from Sherlock. The latter sat up straight and observed his flatmate with his deductive eyes. John couldn't help but feel strange with the situation.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap like that," the good doctor said still fixing his eyes on the wall opposite to Sherlock's stand. "I just want to go home."

"Who is it?" the baritone of Sherlock's voice filled the room with warmth. A kind of familiarity that reminded John of _Home_ and he secretly thanked him for talking, even if the words weren't making any sense.

"Who is who?" he asked.

"You said the one person you want to see is almost never present," Sherlock said slowly. For a moment John could swear he saw a flash of discomfort on the detective's crystal eyes. "Who is this said person? Maybe I could persuade her to come more often."

"And what makes you think I was referring to a _she_?" John was feeling suddenly tired. He didn't want to have this conversation with Sherlock. It was far too soon to let him know.

The long, long week he had spent in the hospital gave him more than time to think about what he wanted. John had measured the basic aspects of his life .now, and compared them to his life before Sherlock. The conclusion was that _now_ he _lived_. He didn't just survive anymore. He had a reason to be. Sherlock Holmes, amazing, brilliant, focused, arrogant Sherlock Holmes saved him from the pit. And that's where his heart was. Not in Afghanistan, not in his family's hands, not anywhere, but with Sherlock Holmes.

As if he could hear his flatmate's thoughts, Sherlock got up and rested a hand in John's chin and turned his head to face him. "John," the detective said giving him a smile. "I'm going to take you home."

It was a promise and John smiled. If there was anyone who could do it, Sherlock was the one. He travelled his own hand and held Sherlock's, giving it a quick squeeze. Then letting go, he observed as the detective returned to his seat.

"I never asked. How's the investigation going? Do you want to take me through it?" honestly, although he was dying of curiosity to know about the details, he only asked because he wanted to hear some more of Sherlock's baritone. "What have you got?"

"Not much, actually," the detective said with a frustrated sigh. He pulled his phone out of his inside pocket and started to read to John, "It's called the Shamrock Operation, what I personally find quite amusing. Moriarty would feel rather insulted with it. I know _I_ would. Anyways, the agent in field – A. J. Holmes – is under the alias of Mecheila Mahslo. There's a short description of her background story, but nothing relevant."

"Do you have the location already?" John asked, sitting up straight on the bed.

"Still unknown. Mycroft loves me enough to make me suffer that much," Sherlock said sarcastically. "At least now we know what we're looking for."

"We do?"

"Of course we do, John. The notes. Is her way to lead us to Moriarty. It marks the crimes he's responsible for, and that's… _that's_ quite a big help," Sherlock said beaming. "Good ol' AJ. Always so subtle."

"So now what? We wait until someone else dies? We can't just wait Sherlock."

"I need to see her. I need to talk to AJ before that happens."

"You can't. That would compromise the entire operation and even might get you both killed!"

"I know. But it's my best option. There's always the chance that Jim trusts her enough not to follow her. Although I wouldn't count on it. There must be some other way. If I could only just think!" Sherlock growled in frustration.

"Have you looked through all the files? There can be watermarks—"

"I've even tried your ludicrous Anagram system, John. _Non c'era nulla_."

John looked at him with a whole new level of warmness gathering in his gut. Sherlock was getting original! God! He was speaking in Italian, now! What next, the apocalypse? It was bad news. Usually it was just English to French, sometimes German, but Italian? That was a first. And _new_ was not good. _Hot though. Really bloody fucking hot!_

"You'll figure it out without having to talk to her. Besides, Mycroft said she was the best, Sherlock. And if she is in anything like the both of you, then I'm sure she's doing a great job. Don't worry," John said after a while. "Knowing you as I know, I'm sure it won't take long till you find a clue. It must be there, somewhere. Maybe you just have to look at it from another perspective. Like a hologram stamp."

Sherlock suddenly got up and eyed his flatmate with a new glow of enthusiasm. "Oh, John! Novel!" he said, clasping his hands. "You are brilliant!"

And then he rushed out of the small hospital room, leaving one very annoyed John behind. "Well, that was a record," he huffed to himself. "I hate this place."

John turned in bed, his back now facing the door as he pushed the covers up to his neck. _The one person you wanted to see rushes away from you at his first chance._

"I wouldn't say that," the baritone sounded again, much closer than John would ever expect.

The doctor jumped a little. He didn't even notice he had said it out loud. He didn't turn; instead his eyes fixed the light tiles of the floor in front of him.

"I thought you left."

"I said I was going to take you home," Sherlock reminded.

"Don't bother," John said biting his lip with a little more strength than necessary. "You go and do what you have to do to catch Moriarty. Work your magic. I'm not going anywhere."

John felt a cold hand rest on his injured shoulder. The touch sent electric shocks through his body and he shivered. "I don't think you understand me, John. I need you to come home with me _now_."

"What for? Did you have another quarrel with the skull?"

"Every time I come here, I leave with new ideas. You help me think! I want to wipe that bastard from the face of earth, and I need you to... _assist_ me with it," God knew '_help'_ was an alien word in Sherlock's lips, but John accepted his plea with a secret smile.

"I'm going to be discharged tomorrow, Sherlock. You can wait till then," John said, holding back a snort.

"No, I'm not leaving without you. Get up and get ready. I'm going to pull some strings."

"Oh God, you're not going to talk to _her, _are you?" John asked, shocked.

"See you in a minute."

Sherlock's hand broke the contact with John's shoulder and John actually missed that cold comfort. He smiled to himself. Sherlock was not going to leave him alone, he was taking him home.

Being sick turned out to be a blessing. It surely helped with John's lust issues, well at least when Sherlock was not around, which was pretty much always. He smiled and sat on the bed, looking around at his cold, empty room. Why were hospitals always so damn uncomfortable? It was almost sinister.

Through the window, John spotted Sherlock with his phone in hand, waving his arms dramatically at Dragon Lady. Miss Banks, the head nurse, was nowhere near happy with his flatmate's sudden need to take him out of there.

"I don't care, Mr Holmes. He could even be the Holy Pope! He's not going anywhere until Doctor Farmer says so!" he heard the lady say through muffled words.

John giggled to himself. Oh it was extremely amusing to see Sherlock sweat whenever confronted with the elder woman. Each one more stubborn than the other and it was always impossible to know who would win. He and Lestrade had actually betted once, John deposited his faith in Sherlock, as Lestrade took Miss Banks' side, purely out of fear, John had deduced. In the end John had won a fiver, sheer luck though, when it comes to Holmes and Banks it was always an unpredictable result. _Holmes and Banks. That sounds an awful lot like a law firm. Dear Lord!_

"Is that your final word?" Sherlock was asking. He was towering over the much smaller woman, but she didn't seem impressed at all.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. Now I would advise you to spend the last fifteen minutes of visits time inside with your friend or I'll be forced to call security if you continue with this nonsense," Miss Banks was starting to flush with anger.

John let out a bark of laughter at the sight of Sherlock stump his foot on the floor like a five year old kid. "But I need him _today!_"

"No can do."

"Fine!" Sherlock roared as he turned around from her and walked inside John's room. "John! Get dressed, we are escaping. What do you say of a little jog around London?" Sherlock announced as he got closer to John's bed.

He shut the shades of the window that gave access to the hospital wing. Then he pushed the covers down to the doctor's ankles and fetched his trousers and shirt from inside the little cabinet by the bed.

"Sherlock, I really don't think that's a good idea," John began looking affectionately at his flatmate.

"What?" Sherlock's tone showed surprise and disappointment.

"Well, I'm not one hundred percent rid of my chest pain. I mean, yeah the danger is of forming another clot is gone, and the coughing is not as severe, but I can't just escape and run in the cold."

John was talking, but the blue and white shirt Sherlock had tossed him was already halfway to his shoulders.

"But John, I thought—"

"No, Sherlock," John said severely this time. "I'm not running anywhere. We're taking a bloody cab home," he shot a very impish smile at Sherlock and began to button up the shirt.

Sherlock's smile widened as he retrieved his Blackberry from the inside pocket of his jacket and dialled up a number. All the time he kept his back turned to John, giving him privacy while he was getting dressed.

"Yes, I need a cab in St Bart's in ten minutes," John heard Sherlock say to the device. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh I feel naughty!" John chuckled. "I haven't done something like this in ages! Bloody hell, it feels... so... good."

John finished to button up the trousers and looked for his shoes under the bed. "Any ideas of how we're going to escape without Miss Banks knowing?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at John with wide eyes. "I'm thinking."

"Or you could lend me your phone," John said.

Sherlock tipped his head to a side in a curious puppy fashion and reluctantly handed John his phone. "What's your idea?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm just going to activate code blue in room 303," John said tapping excitingly on Sherlock's phone.

"You're hacking the system with a Blackberry?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, I sure wouldn't be able to do it with a Tamagotchi," John was beaming now. It had been ages since he had done something like this. Well, he had gone to war and killed several man, and kept secrets before. But this was different.

Sherlock was, once again, speechless. John, hacking a hospital system, well that's something you don't see every day. And God help him if he wasn't finding it extremely hot.

"How do you even know how to do that?" Sherlock asked. He had to ask. Curiosity was killing him now.

"I was trained at Bart's remember? I can still recall one or two things from old days. Of course in my day it was harder, but technologies are so delightfully helpful nowadays," the doctor smirked at Sherlock.

"You can be arrested for that, you know?"

"Oh, yes. Well, let's make sure we won't get caught, then, shall we? Seriously Sherlock, it doesn't seem like you to ask this kind of stuff." John tossed the phone back at Sherlock, who caught it in mid air. "Ready to run?"

"What, now?" the latter asked.

"Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

An alarm sounded in the end of the corridor and they heard heavy, quick steps rushing in the opposite direction of John's room. Sherlock stepped to the door and opened it just enough to peek outside. Nurses and doctors shouted at each other, in a mix of technical terms and orders of procedure. John held Sherlock's hand and pulled him out of the door, quickly making his way through the so familiar hallways.

"Mr Holmes! Doctor Watson! Come back here!" Miss Banks shouted at them, quickening her steps. "What are you doing? Security!"

Sherlock pulled John and ran, dragging him around. "Sorry lady. We can't stay for tea, but don't worry. John's in good hands now."

The persistent old nurse continued shouting after them, but no one was listening, due to the 'emergency' in room 303.

Sherlock was laughing when they got to the elevator. Luckily for them, as soon as they arrived one of the elevators was already there, like it was waiting for them. He quickly pressed the button and leaned against the wall.

"Oh, John, you are brilliant," he said, noticing that John's hand was still on his. He smiled. "Who's the victim?"

"Mr Berry. He's in a coma for three years, and one thing I've noticed while dying of boredom, was that his he had loads of code blue situations, and every time it happens, every single soul in this hospital rushes to him," John said panting slightly. His chest was aching.

"Berry? As in Alexander Berry?"

"You know him?"

"Oh yes. He's an art collector and one of the most well succeeded men in Britain. Even in coma he earns more by the hour than the Queen in a month," Sherlock said.

The elevator ringed, announcing them that their journey had come to an end. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand and rushed out of the hospital. The cab was just stopping when they got to the street. Perfect.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes," The cabbie said looking curiously at the two men.

"That's us! I mean, that's him, but that's us. Oh, you get it. Get inside." John said opening the door and giving way to Sherlock. He followed him and sat heavily on the seat besides the detective. "That was..."

"Close," Sherlock offered.

"Very close," John started laughing hysterically. "I could kiss you right now."

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, squeezing Sherlock's hand and circling his thumb on his skin. The smile in John's face was of pure contentment and even a bit of pride.

John hadn't notice the sudden blushing on Sherlock's cheeks, or the way the detective's mind was screaming 'Oh God, John, please do kiss me, I don't mind'. What he had noticed, though, was that his best friend shifted in his seat to get closer to him. _Home,_ he thought, _I'm going home._

* * *

><p>AN: So here's the bridge... Do you know when you're writing something and the words just flow naturally like you don't even have to think to know what to write? Well that didn't happen with this chapter. SERIOUSLY HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS? I just hope you like it, and please Review. It means a lot to me.

Speaking of Reviews: OH MY GAWD! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH MY LOVELY READERS! Thanks for all the reviews and faves and alerts. They'r all very welcome! Please don't stop!

Aaaand Season 2 is coming soon. 1st of January in the UK... Well F-U very much! What about us? Here in Portugal Season 1 started in August! Unfair man, very unfair!

Enough of babbling.

Next: Where the Sunshines

*Bloo* -Out-


	7. Where the Sun shines

**Chapter 7: Where the Sun shines**

"Have you seen my—"

"Coffee table."

"Thanks. And where did I put the—"

"Mantelpiece."

"Oh, right. Thank you," John said quickly picking up the house keys and shoving them inside his jacket's pocket. "Are you sure you're not going to need me today?"

"I'll be fine," Sherlock muttered, typing away on John's laptop.

"Don't forget to log out afterwards," the doctor turned and entered the kitchen. "Blimey! That's hot!" he said dropping the toast and blowing some air to his hand.

It was John's first day at the surgery after a three week absence, and he was running late. Sarah wouldn't like it. She wouldn't like it at all. And considering the terms of their break up, it was highly improbable that she would forgive his delay.

John quickly coated the toast with a big amount of his favourite strawberry jam, and put it in his mouth. Then, he returned to the sitting room, picked up his case and made way to the door.

"Later," he shot over his shoulder, before feeling the presence of Sherlock behind him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm coming with you," the detective said shortly. "I need to go meet Dimmock at the Yard. I'm sure you don't mind sharing a cab," he concluded with a smile.

John shrugged and rushed down the stairs, followed by Sherlock and his long coat. God, he loved that coat. _Oh, focus you damn idiot._ John opened the door and looked for a taxi, biting on his toast again. He hated to eat in a rush, but he didn't want to test Sarah's patience. A minute later both of them were inside the cab. _Blessed be Sherlock and his cab magnet super powers,_ John thought, finishing his breakfast.

"Uh, John," the detective said sheepishly, looking intently at John's features.

"What?"

"You have... a bit... there..." Sherlock pointed at his own lips.

"Oh, jam?" the doctor asked, trying to lick it away. "Is it gone?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No it's still there," he pointed at his mouth again.

John tried to lick it again. "Oh dammit. Sherlock, I can't see it!"

Sherlock stripped one of his gloved hands and reached John's face. He brushed a long, cold, pale finger in the corner of John's lip and wiped the remains of the jam away.

"There..." Sherlock whispered.

John noticed the flushed tone in Sherlock's features and the way he was looking at him. God he was so close he was able to feel the other man's warmth. And, was it him, or they were getting closer? No it wasn't illusion. They were definitely getting closer to each other. John was absolutely lost in that crystal blue gaze, it was like he was hypnotized. Even Sherlock's scent seemed to be pulling him in.

"Ahem... Here we are," the cabbie called, breaking the magic link that had formed between the two colleagues.

"Right, thanks," John said hastily, opening the cab door. "Alright, uh... see you later, then."

"Yes. Have a nice day," Sherlock said awkwardly.

John nodded and quickly made his way to the surgery. Sherlock leaned towards the window and observed him as he disappeared through the glass doors.

"Where to, now?" the cabbie asked again.

"Back to Baker Street," Sherlock said smiling. He looked curiously at the bit of jam still in his finger, and without a second thought, he travelled his hand to his lips, licking the strawberry flavoured component. _My John knows what's good. I wonder if this is how John's lips taste like..._

**...**

"Morning Miss Campbell," John said with a wide smile.

"Oh, hello Doctor Watson," the nurse responded. "How have you been? Are you all better now?"

"Oh yes. Ready to come back," he brushed a hand in her arm in a friendly way and winked. "See you in a minute."

As he walked down the corridor, John had the slight sensation the Miss Campbell was surprised to see him there. What? Did she, by any chance, think that he was going to be sick forever? He was coming back eventually. Of course, he was not counting on a three week absence, but still...

He opened the door to his office and stood still at the sight of a familiar face. The bright red curls of the woman in front of him seemed to burn at the direct light of the morning sun. He gaped before being able to snap out of the initial shock.

"Evelyn! Hello. I wasn't expecting to see you in here," he managed to say. "Let me just dress my robe. I'll see you in a tick."

Evelyn Harper looked up from the papers she was focusing on and turned her attention to John. "Doctor Watson. Well, this is a pleasant surprise. My first patient of the day! How are you? Aunt Martha said you've been ill. What brings you here?"

John turned to her with a very confused expression. What was she babbling about? She wasn't making any sense at all. He took a second look and saw she was wearing a white robe just like the one he wears when working.

"You are a doctor," said John, stating the obvious. Sherlock would've laughed at his slow perception skills. "Did I enter the wrong office?" he looked around looking for something unusual or out of place. He was almost sure he was in the right place.

"You're not here for a consult?" Evelyn asked. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I _work_ here," he said opening the door to confirm that it was, in fact, _his_ office. "So, you're enjoying London so far?"

"Oh God," she breathed.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad. I wouldn't live anywhere else. You'll get used to it," his eyes were still checking the room around him. Something wasn't right.

"Doctor John H. Watson. Of course," Evelyn got up and crossed the room towards him. "They didn't tell you, did they?"

He looked at her and smiled. "What? Tell me what?"

"I'm your replacement."

He laughed. "Well, yes, alright. But I'm all better now. I don't need a replacement anymore."

"No, John. Doctor Sawyer hired me to replace you... _permanently_."

John's eyes snapped wide. He rushed out of his office and ran to the reception hall. "Miss Campbell, where can I find Doctor Sawyer?" he asked, trying hard, really hard, to keep calm.

"Last time I saw her she was in the cafeteria, having breakfast," she hesitated for a moment. "Is everything alright?"

"That's what I'm about to find out. Thank you Rose," he gave her a small smile before making his way to the cafeteria, in the first floor.

_Bloody stairs! Why so many of them?_ Being two weeks inactive certainly had its repercussions. Running, climbing stairs, even walk for little more than half an hour, was like running a marathon. Then there were the chest pains. He hated those so badly. Sherlock had encouraged him to take it slow and increase his strolls progressively, what shocked John at the least. Sherlock was not one to take things slowly, it was always now or too soon with him.

John meandered through the almost empty dining hall before spotting Sarah, in her usual table eating her usual breakfast. He couldn't still quite believe in what was happening. Could it be that he had been fired? And did no one, not one single sorry arse soul bothered to tell him? Worse than that: did Sarah hate him that much? He took one deep breath before approaching her slowly. Maybe it was all a very big and very sad misunderstanding. He gathered himself and sat down in the chair opposite of hers.

"Morning Sarah," he said smiling.

"Doctor Watson," she replied briefly. "How can I assist you this marvellous morning?"

_Why so bloody solemn?_ John arched a brow and leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the table. "Well, I wanted to clarify an obvious mistake," he said in the same clipped tone. "It seems that, during my absence, you hired someone to replace my services."

"That is correct," Sarah said shortly, sipping her coffee.

"I had a chat with Doctor Harper and she told me it was a permanent replacement."

"That is also correct. I fail to understand you're doubt here, Doctor Watson," she said. "Your contract was over by the end of the week you asked me to take care of your flatmate Mr Sherlock Holmes. And since you didn't come to renew it, I couldn't take the risk of proceeding with the surgery's services with one health care professional short."

All of this Shakespearean talk was starting to get on his nerves. "Sarah, I was sick! I couldn't—"

"Oh I don't give a toss about your reasons, Doctor Watson. You knew you had a temporary contract, and you knew it was about to end. Now, I am not going to risk my practice because you decided you wanted to play Batman and Robin all over London. After all, John, if I can recall your words," she chuckled, but the humour was not there, "which I perfectly can, by the way; 'My life will always be about Sherlock'."

"Now, we've talked about this Sarah," he began.

"Yes, we did. And it ended up with _you_ turning your back on _us_ because Mr Big Brains had summoned you to him. You didn't even bother to say sorry. It was just 'Gotta dash, Sherlock needs me'. It took me a while to understand, but now I see it crystal clear. It's like Sherlock is the Sun and you are the Earth. You revolve around him, yearning every night to see its light and brilliance in the morning. And I was your Moon, revolving around you, waiting for the night, waiting for the Sun to set so you could finally notice me. But you know what John? Not anymore. I am tired of waiting. The night is too bloody dark and too bloody cold. I need to find my own Sun. I just hope you're very happy with yours," she got up and walked away from him.

John could swear he heard a sob as she got close to the door. _God, she's so right._ He just sat there, looking down at his hands. So many feelings. Such a fuss inside his chest. It was like all the feelings in his body decided to organize a get together party and his heart was the host. And when I say all the feelings, I really do say _all_ the feelings. Even pain and hurt and hate were invited. No one forgot to invite the evil witch, this time, eh Sleeping Beauty? _Alright, enough with the metaphors. What am I going to do now?_

He slowly got up and marched towards the door. John was unemployed now. How was he supposed to pay the rent? _No, no. Go home and have a cuppa first. Worry about unemployment later._ He retrieved his phone from inside his jacket and dialled Sherlock's number.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson," Rose Campbell said with a sympathetic smile as he passed by her. "I'm going to miss you."

She reminded him so much of Molly Hooper. "Bye Rose. Maybe I'll call you someday. We could go out and have a drink, eh?"

"Sounds great."

He nodded and turned his back, still waiting for Sherlock to answer his call. When he thought about quitting, the deep tone made its way to his ears. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Hey! Hi, Sherlock, it's me," he started. "Look, are you still at the Yard?"

"Hello, John!" came the cheerful reply. "Why should I be there?"

"You said you were going to meet Dimmock there today. You know, about an hour ago, cab, jam... Well, never mind. Are you still there?"

"Oh, yes and no," Sherlock said. "Sorry I was quite distracted with something here. Why do you ask?"

"Yes and no? What kind of answer is that?"

"Yes, I remember. No, I'm not there anymore."

"Oh, alright then," John murmured.

"Why, John? What's wrong?"

"Do you have to know everything? I'm going home now and I thought that if you were still at the Yard, you could pass by the surgery on your way home and pick me up. But it's okay, I'll just walk. I could use some exercise."

"Why are you coming home, John? What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there... maybe. Look, I'll see you in a minute," John said, cutting the call before Sherlock could ask any more questions.

He strolled through the cold street, feeling the ever so smooth kiss of the sun beams on his skin. He would think of something as soon as he saw Sherlock. He was sure of that. Meanwhile, he was just going to worry about getting home.

**...**

Sherlock deposited the phone on top of the kitchen table and got up to get a new set of gloves. He was in the middle of an experiment when the strident ring filled the quiet flat, and he waited for them to quit. But when the subject had shown himself rather persistent, Sherlock had to pause his tests to silence the device. He couldn't have guessed that it was John. The man always kept his phone in his jacket while at work. When he heard John's voice all the bad humour dissipated, giving way to a whole new feeling that he had not yet catalogued, it was a mix of excitement with hope. It belonged in the _Good Feelings_ class, though, that much he knew.

But something was wrong. John's voice wasn't calm and smooth as it usually is – well, for the untrained ear, sure, but not for Sherlock. There was a pitch of concern there that shouldn't be present. Something was bothering him. Sherlock quickly evaluated the possibilities and thought of at least ten different things that could've been the main reason for John's concern. Seven of those reasons were caused by himself, so statistically, Sherlock could very well be the guilty party. The remaining three were concerning John's health. What if he was feeling ill again? What if the Blood Clot Nightmare had returned? He swallowed down the lump on his throat and turned his attention back to the microscope. _Let's wait for John and see._

He was counting the amount of red blood cells in the sample of an anaemic child, when the so familiar steps of Doctor Watson were heard in the floor below. One half of him trying to concentrate on cell number five, the other half trying to eliminate causes of distress.

It wasn't cause number four or seven, and by the way he tripped on the mattress downstairs it wasn't five or nine either. One, two and six were eliminated too by the way he climbed the first three steps. All health possibilities were now eliminated, so Sherlock tried to think fast. What had he done to upset his best friend? _Oh God. Was it the cab incident? It can't be. He wouldn't come home just because of that. Maybe the thumb in the kettle was going a bit too far? But he would've told me. No, something is not right, but what is it?_

"Hello," John's soft voice sounded, low and distant, like he was lost in his thoughts.

"John," Sherlock greeted in his ever so aloof manner.

Bowing his head to the microscope again, Sherlock was careful to observe John without him noticing he was being observed. The doctor took the kettle (a new one, the other one went straight to the garbage) and filled it with enough water for two cuppas. _My John, always thinking of me._ After the water boiled, John filled one cup with black coffee and another one with tea, putting the first one in the kitchen table, close enough so Sherlock could reach it, but far enough so it wouldn't compromise the experiments. Sherlock's heart warmed up with the thoughtful gesture. Suddenly he realized that the doctor wasn't mad at him at all. So none of the ten reasons he had predetermined was the right one. What had happened, then? Oh, he hated when he had unanswered questions!

John sat heavily on his chair in the living room, wrapping himself on his favourite blanket. No words were spoken during a long, long, long time. The only sounds in the flat were their breathings, their sips and Sherlock changing the samples on the microscope. The clock on top of the hearth chimed twelve times. Time slid slowly inside 221b. Things had never been so quiet since John came back from the hospital. John had never been so motionless and speechless. Was he sleeping? Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

"John?"

The doctor didn't move. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm hungry," Sherlock lied. Well, he didn't lie entirely. He was feeling kind of hungry. He just wanted to make sure John was paying attention.

"Need to go to Tesco's. Any special requests?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"I meant food, Sherlock. Any special requests concerning your lunch?"

"I trust you. Do whatever you please," came the surprisingly soft reply.

Sherlock took his gloves off and tossed them to the bin. John was already at the door when he turned around. It was like he wanted to say something, but the words were not forming. Sherlock smiled, trying to encourage his friend to just spit it out, but the only thing John said was a quick "I'll be back in a jiff. Hold on and try not to eat any dead things, alright?" and then he was gone.

_Nicely done, Sherlock. You wanted to get closer and get him to talk, and instead to pushed him away!_ He growled under his breath and got up to fetch his violin. He needed noise.

John was _human_. _Humans_ talk about so called feelings, don't they? Why was John breaking that rule? Well, Sherlock didn't feel that need, of course. To him, revealing sentimentalisms was completely ludicrous. What's the point? _Think like John. Think like he would._

"Impossible," he said as he started to run the bow through the strings. "I can't think like him, because his mind is completely alien to my parameters. If only I could _know_ him better."

The tune filling the flat was the same Sherlock had played when John was sick. He called it John's Theme, for some reason. It had nothing to do with the good doctor, and yet every time he played it (always when John was either away or asleep, of course) it reminded him of him.

He remembered the cab incident earlier that morning. Sherlock had woken up with a very good mood. His intuition screamed loud and clear that today was going to be a very good day. So he made plans to escort John to work under a phoney excuse about meeting the young DI Dimmock. Of course John would never suspect. They shared cabs all the time, but today was no normal day. Everything was going well until his sharp, trained eye caught that tiny, little, almost unnoticeable trace of strawberry jam in the corner of John's lips. He wondered if he should tell or not, and what happened next is no news. If it weren't for the cabbie, he was almost 73% sure they would have kissed right there.

As promised, John returned soon after, loads of bags on each hand. Sherlock stopped playing as soon as he heard the door downstairs and pondered about helping him with the shopping, but he quickly bushed that away. It would be extremely out of character for him, yet again, so was caring and wiping away traces of jam and... looking at John the way he was looking now and... wanting to hold him and... kiss him...

The delicious scent of food quickly took over the flat. John turned on his Chef Mode and was rushing around preparing Sherlock's meal. The dark crimson apron was hanging loose on John's neck and Sherlock made amends to knot it before it caught on fire.

"What are you doing?" the doctor said standing still with his hand on the frying pan. "I'm trying to cook here."

"Did you know that 87% of the domestic accidents that occur in the kitchen are caused by stupid little mistakes? For an instance, your apron hanging loose could get caught on the stove and set on fire, because you were too lazy to knot it up," Sherlock stated as his long fingers worked on the straps around John's waist. "I can't take the risk of you being hospitalized again. It would be harder to get away this time. Miss Banks would probably hire a permanent watch-guard to keep you sealed inside."

"That wouldn't stop you, though," John pointed out, allowing himself a smile.

"True indeed," Sherlock stepped back and watched as John returned to work on their meals.

Half an hour later, both of them were sitting down with a dish of pure deliciousness in front of their noses. And, for Sherlock's surprise, he was the only one actually enjoying the food.

"How's your... whatever this is?" Sherlock tried.

"Well, you know the thing you're eating and the taste it has?" John asked.

"Yes, obviously," _it's delicious,_ he added to himself.

"Yes, well, it tastes exactly like that."

Sherlock scowled. "You're delightfully cheery today, aren't you John? A true ray of sunshine."

"Sunshine..." John echoed in a murmur, glancing at Sherlock's eyes. Then he shook his head and looked down at his untouched plate. "Oh dammit."

"What's going on, John?" Sherlock asked, unable to contain himself any more. "Why are you acting like that? Why did you come early from the surgery? What the hell is happening, man?"

John sighed and rested his forehead on his palm, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"I was sacked," he said. "Sarah fired me and she didn't even tell me! I knew nothing until I got there and Saw Mrs Hudson's niece on my chair doing my job."

"Oh," was all Sherlock was able to say.

He was radiant inside. Now John was free for him! He was available for Sherlock's needs and no longer had the responsibility of taking care of other people. Oh it was indeed a very good day, with very good news!

But Sherlock's face fell as soon as he met John's eyes. His friend was hurt and it wasn't just because of the job thing. He made an effort to be supportive.

"Why would she do something like that?" he said, although he could fathom the reason.

"Well, she fired me because I have a Sun," John said sadly.

Sherlock's chest clenched. _What? No, John wouldn't hide that from me, would he? He's so transparent at times. I would've figure it out, for sure!_

"How come you have a son? John, what are you talking about?"

"According to her, my life revolves around my Sun, and he blinds me of everything else. And she's right. God she's so bloody right!" he said hiding his face in his hands.

Sherlock didn't know if he was to be hurt or confused or curious or all of the above. "May I ask when that phenomenon happened? And... well, who the mother is? I mean, do I know her?"

"What?" John lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's and frowned deeply. "Mother of who?"

"Your son! What are we talking about here, John?" Sherlock snapped.

John seemed puzzled at first, but realization soon caught up with him.

"Not son as in offspring, Sherlock. I meant Sun, as in the Solar System, you know, your lifetime enemy," John clarified.

Sherlock could feel himself relax. "_One of_ my lifetime enemies. Don't forget Mycroft and Moriarty."

"Of course not. How could I?" John smiled and got up.

"You didn't eat, John."

"I am aware."

"You need to eat. You need your strengths to recover," Sherlock insisted. "You're still too weak."

"Look at who's playing Daddy now," John said. He got up and placed his plate inside the microwave. "I'll eat it later, Sherlock. I've lost my appetite."

No words were exchanged for the rest of the afternoon. John just sat there, looking at the flames burning in the fireplace, wrapped in his warm blanket. Sherlock could almost hear him think, but he didn't complaint. Apparently, people needed time off sometimes, and although Sherlock could not understand it, he respected it. For John.

Instead he spent the day experimenting and updating his website. He even wrote a summary of the Gonzaga's case so John could write about it in his blog. The night fell slowly, bringing dark and cold with it. Sherlock was fussing around the Black Folder when John finally got up, only to take a sit by the writing desk and logging on his laptop.

"Thanks for the notes, by the way," he said softly.

Sherlock pretended not to hear, watching as John started typing in that so peculiar manner of his. His phone chimed and, for a change, he decided to ignore that too. One word swimming around his head as he got through the files for the millionth time: _Hologram_. He desperately wanted to find Moriarty, but he knew better. He knew Mycroft wouldn't make this easy for him either, and he knew Moriarty would be found when _His Excellence_ decided so. What fun was the game if they skipped the foreplay?

_The problem is that now, dear Jim, I don't want to play. Now I just want to find you so I can put a bullet through that obnoxious head of yours._ His thoughts drifted away with a second chime of his cell phone and again, Sherlock ignored it.

"I need to use your laptop," he said.

John just kept on typing. "Will it take long?"

"No, just a quick research."

The doctor finished the phrase and got up so Sherlock could take his place. _My, that was easy._ As he sat down and logged on his e-mail account, he heard John mutter to himself, so softly it was hard for him to figure out was being said. The words came out muffled from the kitchen. Sherlock propped his head up and tried to capture a glimpse of the moaning doctor.

"Oh God," John cried again. "I'm dying," he said. "I am bloody dying!"

At the sound of this Sherlock got up and strolled quickly to meet his friend in the kitchen.

"John, what is it? Are you feeling ill again?"

John had his eyes firmly closed, and he was breathing hard. "I lost my job," the weakness in his voice made Sherlock stiffen.

"I fail to see the connection between the two things, John."

The army doctor shook his head. "Well, think about it. No job, no money. No money, no rent. No rent, homeless. Homeless, sickness. Sickness, death," John said. "I. Am. Dying."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Who would've thought that John Watson could be such a drama queen at times? It was only a job. He would be fine, besides Sherlock would make sure that nothing would hurt him. He thought that maybe he should say that to John, put his mind at rest, but he was only good with words when it came to dead people, or stolen goods, or anything that was not _this,_ whatever _this_ was. Instead he landed his hands on John's shoulders and conducted him back to his place on the desk and patted him awkwardly.

"I am going to retire to my quarters. Please feel free to call me if you find yourself in need," Sherlock said.

John gazed at him with a quirked eyebrow. "You people have to stop talking fancy when I'm around. That shit is seriously getting on my nerves."

"Do forgive me John," Sherlock said. "Disturbing you was the least of my purposes."

"Oh, for God's..." John trailed off and waved a hand to Sherlock as if to say 'Yes, just go the bloody hell away and let me be'.

Sherlock just nodded and made way to his room, leaving the door just half closed, so he could hear the sounds of John from the sitting room. The sounds of life. He changed to his pyjamas and laid down in bed, alert to everything.

He started to pay attention to the scents around him. Freshly laundered bedding, his own cologne, the scent of the newspaper by the bedside table and the cold coffee from that same morning just besides it. Then he widened the ray of inspection. He could still spot the smell of the delicious meal John had cooked all those hours ago, the scent of old books, the scent of John and the surprising scent of the resin he applied to his bow before playing the violin. There was also a vague smell from a chemical compose he used to do one of his experiments, that afternoon. And then there was the outside life. The unpleasant trail of petrol mixed with a whole fist full of things Sherlock didn't even want to imagine.

Letting his nose rest for a bit, he decided to give his ears a go. The first thing that he captured was the ever so familiar sound of his own breathing, then the slight creek of the springs in his bed. Again he widened the area of research, seeking for new sounds. John typing, John breathing, John shifting his feet under the desk, the clock on the mantel piece ticking away slowly and steady. Oh, John was sighing. He was frustrated with something.

Sherlock had to recognize that his best friend wasn't having a good day. But what could he do? An idea crossed his mind but he quickly pushed it away.

Sobbing.

Had he heard right?

Yes, it was most definitely sobbing.

God, John was crying? Impossible. John was a soldier. Possibly the strongest man he ever met.

Sherlock got up from bed and softly walked back into the sitting room. Moving like a ghost, he observed the scenery around him before leaning quietly against the kitchen doorframe. John was still sitting there, his laptop being the only source of light in the room. The blonde took one hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What am I going to do, Sherlock?" John muttered as got up and walked to the window, looking up at the sky.

The detective didn't answer. It was obvious that John was still oblivious to his presence, so he knew that the words weren't for him. Sherlock started to walk towards John. His's back were turned to him, eyes still fixed in the dark grey infinity, limp arms resting on both sides of his torso. Sherlock ventured resting one hand between his shoulder blades.

"Bloody hell! You gave me a fright!" John huffed, leading a hand to his chest. "I don't like it when you do that, Holmes."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, giving him a small smile. He noticed John was wiping away something from his cheeks. Tears maybe? What could be upsetting him so much? "Do you want to talk?" he offered. This is what friends do, right? They _talk_ about problems and stuff. Trying to be _human_ for John was harder than he thought it would be. Was there a protocol? A manual for 'How to be a friend' or something like that?

John didn't turn. Instead he just snorted and bowed his head down, looking at his hands. Sherlock gazed at his exposed neck and held himself so he wouldn't press his lips on John's warm, tanned skin.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock inquired.

"Nothing at all," said John. "It's going to snow. I can smell it in the air," he added in an attempt to divert the conversation.

Sherlock sighed. _You can't smell snow, John. Don't be silly._ Instead of correcting John, he decided not to drop the former issue. He _was_ going to know what was wrong with his best friend.

"John, I might not be an expert on the emotional field, but it doesn't take much to deduce that you are upset. It's been buggering me all day, so I'm trying to behave like a good friend, although I must confess I have no idea what I am doing. I am _trying_ here—"

"Don't. Just... don't, Sherlock," John's voice was barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't understand, and I know better than too ask that from you."

"But I want to understand John. Please help me understand," Sherlock said desperately turning the smaller man to him.

John sighed. "I wish I could translate it to words. But it's just so much. It's such a heaviness in my chest, Sherlock. I hardly recognize myself anymore. In this case, words won't cover feelings."

So Sherlock wasn't the only one having trouble with that feelings stuff. "Then _show_ me how you feel," he said brushing one cold finger from John's temple to his jaw line. Friends could do stuff like that couldn't they? Or was there a rule that forbade touching and caressing a best friend in need? Anyway, Sherlock didn't have the time to think about it.

John's left hand went up to the nape of Sherlock's neck and his warm fingers stroked his soft, dark curls. Sherlock's eyes widened but he tipped his head towards the comfort of John's touch. And then he was being led down, ever so softly, by that strong, warm hand that belonged to_ his_ strong, warm John. Their eyes locked in each other as the space between them was wearing thin. John rested Sherlock's forehead on his own and closed his eyes.

"Don't let me do this, Sherlock," he pleaded, breathing deeply.

"John..."

"Please—"

"John," Sherlock said firmly, cupping John's cheek. "Look at me," he asked. John obeyed and opened his dark silvery eyes to meet Sherlock's. "_My John..._"

Sherlock's blood rushed, boiling in his veins as he felt the soft contact of John's lips on his. Smooth and warm and perfect. He let out a huff of air and wrapped his long arm around John's waist in a half embrace. Sherlock heard him whimper and wondered if he had done something wrong. And _then_ was when the kiss became deeper. John pulled him down, closing his eyes to savour it better. Sherlock did the same, asking himself what was the point of kissing with your eyes closed, but he soon found out.

John's tongue grazed against his plump lips, asking permission to explore. The feeling was fantastic. When Sherlock parted his lips, he felt the hunger on John's kiss grow more and more as his tongue brushed against his own, tasting Sherlock as if his life depended on it. Then he recoiled and let Sherlock copy, knowing that the detective was a fast learner and one who did not hesitate on experimenting.

Sherlock gladly took the invitation and prepared to kill the so tormenting curiosity that has been building inside him for the past several months. John tasted of mint toothpaste and if he concentrated hard enough he could savour the light flavour of orange tea and strawberry jam. Summing it up in one word, John tasted like John, and it was a thousand times better that what Sherlock had imagined. He let his tongue lick John's lower lip, biting it smoothly. Another moan filled the air, and the tension grew thicker by the second.

Sherlock led John backwards, until his back was leaning against the windowsill, never pulling their lips apart. He allowed himself to press against John's length, not caring if his obvious arousal was poking on his friend's tummy. The height difference was pretty considerable, now that he was literally bending over John.

And there it was. The need to breathe became as intense as their need for each other, and finally (yet unfortunately) they had to part.

Panting somewhat severely, Sherlock was able to hear a "God almighty" breath from John, and he looked intently at his flushed features. He wanted to get a glimpse of John's eyes; he wanted to see those big emotional mirrors. But no. John's eyes were clenched as if he was afraid to open them to find out it was a dream. He brushed away John's hair and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Feeling better?" he asked, surprised of how husky his voice sounded.

"Yes, I'm feeling… feeling. Fine, I'm feeling fine. Great, actually," the way he was stammering made Sherlock chuckle. "What exactly happened here?"

"Do you want me to tell you or would you prefer a practical example?" Sherlock asked smirking.

"I learn faster with practical exercises," John said tilting his head back to make way to Sherlock's lips.

And so they kissed again. Not hungrily this time, but soft and slowly, just enjoying the bliss and the company of one another. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John's sweet and relaxed features. He looked beautiful and peaceful in the dim light. A slight movement caught his eye and he looked towards it, past John and the thin glass of the window. His eyes widened and he pulled away. John moaned in protest.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The detective smiled and caressed his face. "Look, John," he motioned towards the window. His grin similar to a child's in the Christmas morning. "It's snowing."

John laughed and turned his back to Sherlock, careful to keep their bodies close to each other, never wanting to break the contact between them. Sherlock laced his hands around John's middle and rested his head on his good shoulder.

"Well, look at that. Was I right, or was I right?"

"You can't smell snow John. It was just a lucky shot, or a very good weather report from Google," Sherlock said calmly, containing the smile that was forming on his lips.

John didn't say anything else. He just involved his arms on Sherlock's and tipped his head to the side. They stood like that for God knows how long. Each of them refusing to move with the fear of breaking that magic link that was binding them together.

And in that moment Sherlock understood what it meant to have a Sun, for he had found his own. And he was sure of one thing: he was never going to let him go.

* * *

><p>AN: Hullo my lovely readers. God I love you all so berry much! I try to answer to your reviews, but I've been busy working on a special gift for you.

It's taking me a long time, though... and I'm wondering if I should write some porn or not. As I said to my dear Chel (love you hun :D) I need to see porn between these two. It's seriously getting on my nerves. So i wanted your opinion... I must confess I'm not that experienced on writing about the matter, so it would be a true challenge (I love those, there's always something to look forward to... wait, what?)

On the present chapter... YAY! Finally! No, seriously, the lads were so stubborn! But now there you have it. Let me know what you think of it in your review...which I love and appreciate.

And don't stop faving, and alerting... and I'm talking a lot again, aren't I?

Next: Christmas Special ...is going to be HUGE! As a Christmas present for you lot!

*Bloo*


	8. Christmas Special

A/N: Hey People! Here it is...the Christmas Special chapter I've promised you. Very BIG HUGE MASSIVE THANK YOU to my dear Chel (I love you hun, seriously) for _Beta-ing_ this chappy and also for being the most patient and adorable and fantastic Jawn my Sherlock could ever have (or... you know.. whatever...)!

Thank you for your reviews. I love you all. And please... don't stop... I need my fuel. I actually do give a fuck about your opinion. (Don't be shy!)

**WARNINGS:** HOLYSHITMOTHERFUCKING HUGE CHAPTER! So proceed with caution. You have been warned. You might come across a particularly disturbing crime scene, too. There's so much going on here. _ MIGHT _contain slight porn...nothing serious though... Oh hell! Who am I kidding... Just read the bloody thing and take your own conclusions.

MERETRICIOUS EVERYONE! AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Laterz!

*Bloo*

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8 – Christmas Special<strong>

"Oh, dear. You have a natural gift for this!"

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," John said proudly while sprinkling the kitchen counter with flour. "Thank you for the recipe, by the way."

"Oh, you're very welcome, dear. Just promise me you'll bring me some when you're finished," she said, patting him in the shoulder.

"No worries, Mrs Hudson. I'll deliver them myself," John started to work on the dough, stretching it through the floured surface. "It's been ages since I did something like this."

"I'll fetch those biscuit cutters. You keep rolling that dough," Mrs Hudson said before turning around and leaving the kitchen.

Last time John had baked biscuits was while at Uni. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Well, it kind of was a lifetime ago. If someone had told him back then that fifteen years later he would be an unemployed war veteran who runs around London side by side with a high-functioning sociopath that's able to guess the colour of your girlfriend's knickers by the way you lick a post stamp, he would have laughed at their faces and told them to fuck off. And yet here he was, having a sort of _thing_ with his flatmate and with nothing better to do than to mess up the kitchen. _Life's good._

He was humming something under his breath as he always did when he was distracted with cooking stuff, when a pair of cold hands rested on his waist.

"Good Lord! What are you doing to my kitchen?" Sherlock asked looking puzzled at the messy counter.

"How many times, Sherlock, do I have to tell you not to go all Ghost of Christmas Past on me? Don't sneak up!" John protested, slapping Sherlock's hands from his waist.

"And how many times do I have to tell you to tie up your apron? What if you catch on fire, John?"

"While rolling dough? Yes, Sherlock, the chances of that happening are excruciatingly high."

"Anyway, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked again.

"Why don't _you_ tell me, detective? I would think that it was quite an easy task for you to deduce when one's baking biscuits," the good doctor said while sprinkling another handful of flour over the even dough. "Though I'm curious to know what other interpretations could my rolling dough have formed in that funny brain of yours."

"Why are you baking, John? Please just make sure your messiness doesn't reach my experiments."

John stood still, his hands resting on the wooden rolling pin. Sherlock was fooling around, right? He wasn't asking that.

"Surely you must be kidding," John said, turning around to face the taller man.

"I'm deadly serious. Don't spoil my experiments," Sherlock's genuine confused look was all John needed to be sure.

"Oh, God. Please tell me you _know_ what day it is today."

Sherlock tipped his head to a side and stepped back so he could take a good look at the blonde. "Should I?"

"Mother's love. It's the 23rd of December, Sherlock! Tell me you knew that! Christmas is in two days!" John said hopelessly.

"Oh right, _that_," Sherlock said dismissively. "Is that important?"

"I quit. I bloody well quit," John breathed waving the rolling pin in the air. "Why do I even bother with trying to have a normal Christmas? God knows I'm not the religious type, but… It's Christmas! It's that time of the year when people happen to remember they have a family and feel that sudden need to spend all their savings to compensate for 364 days of silence! It's time for merrymaking and mulled wine and BISCUITS! THAT'S WHY I'M BAKING THE FUCKING BISCUITS!" he yelled as he stomped his foot on the floor.

Sherlock almost looked taken aback with the sudden outburst, but then something seemed to ring. "Another night of nightmares, I presume."

John could only nod. Sherlock brushed his hand on the doctor's nose and wiped away the traces of flour. "Sorry," John murmured.

Sherlock smiled. "Lestrade rang," he said. "He needs us."

"Tell me something new," John sighed. "Note?"

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"You're disgustingly cheery today. May I know the occasion?"

"Do you remember that thing I said not thirty seconds ago about Lestrade calling us?" Sherlock asked with a quirked brow.

"Fine. Call me when you're done there," John said turning around and devoting his attention back to the dough again.

He was smacking the dough with the rolling pin now. All of the frustrations caused by the night terrors were visible in each blow.

"What are the odds the gingerbread men come out of the oven with black eyes and bruises?" Sherlock asked, looking somewhat horrified at the tortured dough in front of John.

"Luckily for me, the Gingerbread Man Protection Syndicate is out for the season," John muttered brushing his forearm over his forehead, wiping away the flour.

"Just be careful so they won't start a mutiny," Sherlock turned around and flicked the kettle on.

"What are you doing?"

"Tea."

"Mm."

"John. How bad were these nightmares?"

"Really bad," he sighed and put down the rolling pin.

Reaching back to the lace Sherlock had just made on his apron, he loosened it and tossed the apron aside. Then, in one swift motion, he held the hem of his brown t-shirt and stripped it, stretching his left shoulder, where it hurt.

Sherlock stared at the huge amount of exposed skin in front of him. Thank God his pyjama slacks were considerably loose… oh, wait… no, scratch that. He'd seen John's bare chest before. Why was it so unbearable now?

"Sherlock?" John called.

"Yes."

"My shoulder aches. First drawer to your left, there's a gel for my muscle pain, could you fetch it for me?"

Sherlock nodded and grabbed the tube. Squeezing a bit into his hand, he rubbed his palms together to warm it up before applying it on John's injured shoulder.

"Maybe torturing poor innocent dough with an injured shoulder wasn't such a bright idea," he said.

"Just keep doing that. It feels good," John said leaning back against the kitchen table. As he did so, one of test tubes fell and shattered on the floor.

"Careful, John!" Sherlock thundered.

"Sorry, sorry. Just don't stop. It feels really good," John said tipping his head back, his left arm falling limp at his side.

Sherlock just kept on rubbing and massaging the scarred shoulder, trying hard to contain the blood flow in his cheeks. Useless, though. Every moan, every breath that escaped John's lips was like dropping a lit match in a puddle of gas. John's skin was surprisingly smooth. He didn't actually expect it to be like sandpaper, but it was almost like warm velvet under his fingertips. Sherlock intended to bend down and feel the velvet with his lips, when the sound of footsteps woke him from his delirium.

"Oh my God!" Mrs Hudson dropped the metal cutters to the floor and looked away, blushing bright red. "I see you boys are busy, I'll just come back later!"

"Nonsense, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, breathing in a sigh of relief for having a distraction. "I was quite finished here." He turned around and washed the remaining gel off of his hands. He looked at John and noticed the doctor's hips were strategically positioned behind one of the chairs.

"Are you sure? I can come back later."

"Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favour," John said stretching his arm, experimenting with the pain levels. "You're really good at this," he said to Sherlock.

"Thank you."

"Well, as I was saying. I need a favour. DI Lestrade called and he needs us, so—"

"No problem. I'll finish the biscuits for you," the landlady said with a smile.

"NO!" John shouted.

Both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson looked startled at John's reaction.

"Sorry, I meant no, thank you," John said again, softly this time. "I want to finish them myself. I was just going to ask if you could keep the dough in your fridge, until we come back."

The lady nodded and picked up the cutters. "Sure, love. What's wrong with your fridge?"

Sherlock started to sneak out of the kitchen.

"It's full of… uh… things… and stuff," John said.

"Things?" Mrs Hudson asked cautiously, making way to the fridge.

This time it was Sherlock who shouted. "NO! Don't' open that!"

"You boys are behaving very oddly today. I'll just wrap this up and try to… oh dear…" her words trailed off as she danced around the kitchen, tidying everything up.

John took the opportunity to rush upstairs and get dressed. _Focus John. Focus. Just bloody focus on something. Oh! Look! There's a stain in the floorboards by the window. That's a lovely stain, really fascinating. It's so irregular and… stain-like. These floorboards are quite beautiful too. Maybe the wood is a tad too dark, though. I could buy a carpet! A red carpet. Like the one downstairs. Or a pink one. A bright pink carp— Mrs Hudson would love that. Oh God, what am I? A Disney princess?_

He looked down. It was working!

"John! Are you going to take much longer?" Sherlock called while climbing the stairs.

Well… it _was_ working. Why did Sherlock have to talk? _I should definitely buy some curtains too. Simple white ones, just so the sun won't hit my face first thing on a Sunday morning. My room is too bare. Too naked._ His eyes widened. _Okay, note to self; don't think about naked while trying to fight a hard-on. And don't think about hard-ons while trying to fight one too. OH GOD! DON'T THINK AT ALL!_

He sat on the bed lacing his shoes, when he finally noticed the tall figure of that Holmes person, leaning against his doorframe.

"Ready?" he said, getting up and reaching for his black jacket.

"Lestrade called again," Sherlock said.

"He did?"

"No note."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I guess."

"Mycroft is downstairs."

"So you're hiding here?"

"No, I came to fetch you," Sherlock shrugged.

"He wants to talk to me?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. But I want you to be there. I'm afraid to be left alone with him."

"You're… afraid… of Mycroft…" John said in disbelief.

"No. I'm afraid I might kill him if we're left alone in the same room," Sherlock reasoned.

John sighed. "Yes, I'm coming. Just give me a couple of minutes," he said, stripping himself of his coat once again.

Sherlock nodded and went back downstairs.

John counted to ten very slowly. He was not in the mood for Mycroft. Every time he came to 'visit' Sherlock reached a whole new level of insanity, and John was always the punching bag. Not literally, of course, but thirty-three year old Sherlock became a two-year-old moron, and John was the one who had to put up with him. He was _not_ going to let Sherlock reach that level of insanity today. He was furious and sleep deprived and had a bloody lot of angry energy to release.

He got downstairs and passed by the two Holmes brothers before entering the kitchen and putting the kettle on again.

"No," he heard Sherlock say.

"I think you don't have much of a choice," Mycroft insisted.

"Wrong. I do have a choice and it is '_no_.'"

John sighed. It was starting.

"Must I remind you of the trouble I had to clean up after your sweet escape from Bart's?" Mycroft said bitterly.

"So what, Mycroft? Are you intending to take it back? You want to see us behind bars, now, is that it?"

"You can always do as I say and come home for Christmas. Mummy would be so very pleased."

John tossed his head back as he poured the hot water inside two cups. Yes, two – one for Sherlock and one for himself. Mycroft wasn't going to stay much longer.

"Just because you can order AJ around, doesn't mean you can do the same to me," Sherlock said with a clipped tone. "And no, Mother wouldn't be even remotely pleased. You must remember the disgrace of last year's supper, I believe."

"Her name is Atandra, Sherlock. You're not twelve anymore, start calling her by her name."

John snorted. The Holmes siblings did have the oddest names.

Sherlock huffed. "Unlike you, I respect the fact that she doesn't appreciate her name. So, unless she's miraculously changed her mind, which I doubt, since it didn't happen in the last thirty-one years, I'll keep calling her AJ. Now, if that was all, you can go away and try hard not to get any fatter." Sherlock paused and cocked his head to the side. "Just out of curiosity, is she going?"

"Obviously not. It's far too dangerous. It could compromise the operation," Mycroft almost seemed offended by the question.

"Then we're not going either."

"_We_, Sherlock?"

"Me and John, obviously. You weren't expecting me to leave him alone during Christmas, now, were you?"

John shot _the look_ at Sherlock, but the latter wasn't even paying attention to him.

"I reckon he has a sister of his own," Mycroft said.

"Well, leaving him with Harry would be almost as painful as leaving him alone," Sherlock said dismissively, leaning back. "Go away now. We are not going to engage in that ludicrous excuse to pretend the Holmes family is even remotely normal."

"Sherlock, don't make me angry. You know what I'm capable of doing when I'm angry. Now stop behaving like a toddler and start packing. We leave tomorrow," Mycroft's words were gloomy and cold.

John had had enough. He stepped into the living room again and handed one of the cups to Sherlock.

"Mycroft…" John started.

"Oh, John. Please try to get through to him," the elder Holmes asked with a sigh of frustration.

"I don't think you understood, Mycroft. I believe Sherlock already said _no_," John said looking sharply at the elder Holmes. "And you're sitting in _my_ chair," he added.

"Excuse me, I don't think you're being reasonable here, John."

"It's Doctor Watson, and yes, I'm really being _very_ reasonable. And as I said, you're in my chair, so could you please move so I can sit?"

"John…" Sherlock murmured as a warning.

Mycroft looked from one to the other. "If you're so eager to sit down, I couldn't help but notice the sofa is vacant. It's just an armchair, _Doctor Watson_."

"Yes, and it's _mine!"_

"Since when, if I may ask so, did you start having such possessive feelings towards this particular piece of furniture? You didn't seem to mind before," Mycroft asked, smiling widely.

"Since I started shagging your brother in it," John said coldly.

Mycroft widened his eyes at the abruptness in John's voice. His hand curled tightly around his umbrella before he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock pressed his hands together and his eyes locked with John's for a moment, the Cheshire Cat grin wide on his face.

"Please get up and leave, _now_," John said after a while. "My tea is getting cold."

Mycroft got up and went silently to the door. John took his seat and sipped on his cuppa as if they had just been discussing the lottery numbers.

"I'll be in touch, Sherlock. It was nice to see you… _lucid_ this time," Mycroft said before he left the flat.

Sherlock glanced at John, panic rising in his gut, but the doctor was too busy unfolding the newspaper to have noticed Mycroft's comment. Sherlock decided to break the silence.

"What was that all about?"

John drank another sip and ran his eyes through the black lettering on the front page. "He was sitting in my chair."

"He always sits in your chair," Sherlock pointed out.

"_Precisely_. I live here, so I believe have the right to decide where the fuck I want to sit."

"Really awful nightmares, then. I've never seen you like this," Sherlock muttered.

_No you idiot. You were just bleeding out in my arms. It was like a fucking dream with unicorns and rainbows and cotton candy clouds._ "Yeah, you could say that," John said quietly.

There was another moment of silence. Sherlock was looking intently at John, now. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" John inquired, still looking at the news.

"Why did you say that to Mycroft? You know we're not… well, you and me, we're not… shagging," Sherlock said quickly. "We kissed, _once_."

"Oh, well. You know what they say..." John said finishing his tea.

"No. What do they say?" Sherlock questioned.

"When you've tried everything to kick Mycroft out and failed, whatever remains, no matter how rude it might seem, must be the right way," John said casually, sending him a sideways look.

Sherlock smiled widely. He felt the sudden urge to kiss John again. He looked at John as he licked his lips. He wanted to lick them too! Was he allowed? Could he do it? Was John going to be cross with him? Maybe he should ask first.

"Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, just do it!" John said impatiently.

"What?" his eyes shot back up to meet John's.

The doctor tossed the paper aside and got up. Resting one hand on each armrest of Sherlock's chair, John bent over the detective until they were breathing each other's air. "Just. Do it."

Sherlock gulped dryly and closed the space between them. He savoured John's lips, feeling the smooth skin with the tip of his tongue, brushing and sucking them with every inch of want in his body. He tasted differently, this time. Vanilla tea and sugar to be precise. He allowed himself a nip on John's lower lip and smiled, satisfied when he heard the other man moan.

Feeling a great lot more confidant, Sherlock ran a hand along the length of the army doctor's broad shoulders, pulling the man closer to him. His hand descended to the small of his back, clutching at John's beige knitted jumper. He tilted his head to a side at the feeling of John's lips travelling down to his chin and making their way to his neck. He let his head fall back, his lips parting slightly as he breathed out in short gasps.

"John…" Sherlock groaned, the sound reverberating in his throat.

He felt the trail of goosebumps John's lips were leaving behind and his body shivered violently. John certainly knew how to use his tongue. The feeling of his teeth grazing against his Adam's apple was absolutely extraordinary. He felt pressure on his chest and a second later John was breaking contact and looking deep inside Sherlock's eyes.

"If you don't stop me now, Sherlock, I swear I won't be able to contain myself," John breathed.

Sherlock answered by pulling him back so their lips could meet again. "Shut up," he roared against John's mouth.

He felt the kisses moving down his throat, the goosebumps were back and that odd feeling building inside his gut was again gaining on his rational side. Those warm, soft hands that Sherlock wished so much for so long were working rather clumsily on the buttons of his brown shirt, as John undid the buttons; his lips moving down, kissing and nipping the exposed skin of Sherlock's chest.

"God… John," came the hoarse moan.

John parted the shirt, uncovering the pale chest of Sherlock Holmes. Without so much as a warning, he let his thumb circle around Sherlock's nipple, watching closely at his reactions. Sherlock shivered and clutched his hand harder on John's jumper. The sensitive area, responding to the soft, yet powerful stimulation, hardened instantaneously. It felt so good it was almost blinding! If he thought cocaine was a thrill then he had been really, stupidly, insanely naïve.

Something brushed against his hard nipple again, but it was softer and wetter. He looked down just to confirm the presence of John's tongue all over his darkened areola. Sherlock had to bite his tongue not to whimper. Instead he tried hard to focus on breathing.

John seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. Between the sucking and the nipping and the soft biting, what really seemed to spike him up was Sherlock's moans. They were like paper to his fire. After so long of dreaming and imagining it, he had to hold himself not to pinch his arm to make sure he wasn't dreaming. John dropped to his knees, leaving Sherlock's left nipple and paying equal attention to the other.

Sherlock's shirt was already pooling down at his hips. His long and pale torso, so inviting, was being bitten and sucked in places he didn't even know were considered sexually arousing. He liked the biting. The biting was amazing. And John must've captured that because he did it fairly regularly, much to Sherlock's contentment.

He stopped breathing. John's hand was palming his erection. Oh, he wanted it badly. By now, Sherlock was willing to put himself in John's hands and give him a free pass to do whatever he pleased. He just didn't want the thrill and the lightness in his head to go away. Only then did he realise that there was no contact between John's mouth and Sherlock's torso. He opened his eyes again, looking down at the soldier's waiting figure.

"Tell me, Sherlock," John whispered. "Tell me what you want."

Sherlock regarded those swollen, red lips and the way his tongue brushed against them. "John… I want… I don't know… I…" _Words! Where did you go? Come back! I need you!_ "I've never… done something like… Not even remotely close to…"

John smiled. "It's alright. Do you trust me?"

"With my life, John!" Sherlock said quickly.

"Then it's okay. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to."

"But I want you to!" he whined.

"Then tell me, Sherlock. What do you want?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip, looking for the words. "I want you to suck me off," he said, his flushed cheeks sporting an even brighter shade of red.

John smiled and slowly undid the fly on Sherlock's jeans, always keeping eye contact, making time for Sherlock to prepare for the whirlwind of sensations he knew were to come. Next, he undid the zipper and placed one gentle kiss on the curve of Sherlock's hipbone. He tugged on the black underwear and lifted his eyes again.

"Up," he murmured.

Sherlock propped his hips up and John slid both the jeans and the briefs down to Sherlock's ankles, freeing his throbbing erection. He pressed gentle kisses to the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock's thighs, before spreading his legs and making room for himself.

He was beautiful; pale and long and thick and ready to disappear inside John's mouth. He held him in his hand, feeling his weight, when he heard a sharp intake of breath from above. Stroking him a couple of times, he grazed his thumb around the tip, wiping the glistening pearl of pre-come that had formed there. And then John looked up, catching Sherlock's gaze before he took his prick into his mouth.

John sucked gently at the head, listening carefully to Sherlock's moans and registering what he enjoyed the most. When satisfied with the results, he ventured to go a little further. His tongue slid up and down Sherlock's length and teased the head, before swallowing him whole again.

John led one hand up to Sherlock's chest and let it slide down slowly to the dark hairline below his navel, as his mouth worked equally slowly on his shaft. He travelled his hand back again, teasing Sherlock's left nipple, synchronising the two actions with surgical precision.

"John… more, please, I need more," Sherlock pleaded in a husky groan.

John took Sherlock's hand and led it to the soft strands of his sandy hair, giving him the chance to control his rhythm.

Sherlock rocked his hips, following the movements of John's lips around him. He tightened the grip on John's hair and motioned his head up and down, gently quickening the moves as he got closer to the cliff. The sounds coming out of his lips were a big mix of moans and whispers of John's name. His eyes longed to meet John's and he looked down.

God! _His_ John was so beautiful. He watched as the pink muscle of John's tongue ran up and down his shaft, along with the soft touch of the doctor's hand on his balls, tugging and squeezing just with the perfect amount of pressure. Their eyes finally locked and Sherlock felt himself fall down that cliff, as a powerful wave of pleasure rushed down his body.

He called John's name as he came violently inside his mouth, clutching his hand on his flaxen hair in a way that must've been painful, but if that was the case, John didn't complaint. When he finally finished, Sherlock felt the warm tongue grazing around the tip of his cock one more time before it withdrew completely, along with the warm touch of John's hands.

There was a moment of almost-silence in the room, as Sherlock tried to regain his breath and John tried to regain his sanity. Both panting harshly as the realisation of what had just happened sunk in.

"You okay?" John asked quietly.

"Don't know yet," Sherlock answered. "That was… sublime."

John chuckled. "I've noticed," he said.

Sherlock gazed at him with wide eyes. "What about you, John? I don't know how, but I could—"

"No. I'm fine," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am."

"Alright," Sherlock said. "Next time, then."

Another moment of silence took over, as John thought about a 'next time'. Could Sherlock be serious?

"John, can you kiss me again?"

"I have traces of your come all over my mouth, Sherlock."

"Oh, _right_... Well that's _something_," he let the sarcasm fill his voice. "I really couldn't care less."

John propped himself up and glued his lips to Sherlock's, kissing him tenderly before pulling back again soon after, much to other man's dismay.

"You should probably compose yourself," he said while getting up.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to brush my teeth… and… shower… and, well… change," he said looking down embarrassingly.

Sherlock followed his gaze and saw the big wet stain on John's jeans. "Oh," was all he said.

"Yeah. See you in a minute."

John turned around and climbed the stairs to his room. _What the hell happened in there?_ He tried to feel guilty. At least when he felt guilty he knew how to deal with it. Unfortunately, all he could feel was ecstasy. How was he supposed to deal with that? _I just 'blew' Sherlock._ The thought made him laugh hysterically. _It happened. It really, really happened!_ And the best part was that it was Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – who asked him to do it.

He fetched a clean pair of briefs and jeans and went down again towards the bathroom, fighting the urge to step in the sitting room to take a long look at his best friend. Was that what they were? Did best friends do stuff like that to one another? _This sounds like something Sherlock would ask,_ John thought. As much as he admired Sherlock, he didn't want to _become_ him.

John looked at his reflection in the mirror. His hair looked like a golden palm tree and his cheeks were still very flushed. Once again he looked at the shameful stain in his crotch._Fucking hell_. He cursed as he undressed himself.

He had promised himself he would hold back, and he did, remarkably well he had to admit, until he heard Sherlock orgasm and scream out his name. Seriously, there's only so much a man can take, and with that amount of lusting, his threshold became considerably shorter.

The warm water slid down his shoulders, cleaning away the traces of his previous activity. _Don't think about it, _he told himself. Sure, it was easier said than done. Even after brushing his teeth, John could still taste Sherlock's skin on his tongue and still had the feeling of his soft lips on his own_. Where's the stain on the floorboards when you need it?_He led his hands to the wall in front of him and let the water run down the back of his neck.

"Could you hurry up, please? We were summoned."

John jumped slightly and cursed again. "How long have you been there?"

"About four minutes and fifty-tree seconds," Sherlock said. "More or less."

John sighed. He thought about buying a collar with a rattle or something to announce Sherlock's presence in a room. Just because he could move like a ghost, it didn't mean he had to do it. "Who summoned you this time?" John asked closing that thin opening in the shower curtain that wasn't showing absolutely anything, but if he didn't close it he would feel like the world was spying on him.

"Lestrade," came the short reply.

"Busy day, eh?"

"I suppose. But luckily for us, there's a note this time," Sherlock said enthusiastically.

"Give me five minutes, Sherlock."

"Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

John heard the door closing softly and took a deep, deep breath. _Sherlock has serious voyeurism issues_, he thought. Turning off the water, he made his way out of the bathtub and searched around for his towel.

"Where is it?" he murmured. Then he realised what had happened. "Oh hell. Sherlock!" he shouted.

Not ten seconds later, a very _innocent_ looking detective popped his head inside the bathroom. "You called?"

"Give it back, Sherlock. Come on, I'm cold!" John whined, trying his best to cover his naked body behind the door.

"Give what back, John? I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock's grin was definitely disagreeing with his words.

"My towel!"

"I don't have it."

"Go fetch it then. You took it, so you go and fetch it before I get sick again!"

"Ask nicely, John."

"Go. Get. The. Fucking. Towel."

"Aren't you forgetting the magic word?" Sherlock said trying to sound patronising.

"NOW!" John yelled closing the door with a slam.

John heard Sherlock's laugh from the other side and grimaced. He leant against the door waiting for Sherlock to come back, looking around to make some time.

His eyes fell on the semi-open first aid cabinet next to the bathroom mirror. He went to shut it when he noticed that the little bag where he kept the sterilised syringes was open too. He tried to remember when was the last time he had applied antibiotics by injection. _Over a week ago_, he realised.

"John I got your towel," Sherlock called, knocking impatiently. "Care to let me in?"

Making a mental note to investigate it further later, John quickly closed both the bag and the cabinet before opening the door, hiding behind it as he reached the towel in Sherlock's hand.

"This isn't my tow— For Christ's sake, this is Mrs Hudson's bathrobe! Look! It's pink!"

"It was the closest thing I found," Sherlock said with a shrug. "And besides, pink suits you."

"Ha! Ha! Look, a funny detective. Give me that!" John roared snatching the robe from Sherlock's hands and covering his body with it.

Sherlock leant against the doorway and looked intently at John as he slipped on his briefs with some clumsiness, trying to fight the thick fabric of Mrs Hudson's robe.

"Do you mind, Sherlock? I'm trying to get dressed here."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes I do mind," Sherlock said grinning.

John adjusted his underwear and let the robe slip to the floor. "You know what? You're quite insufferable at times. Since you're clearly not leaving me alone, do you mind telling me the details of the case?"

Sherlock snorted. "I can't. I haven't seen the crime scene yet, I have no data whatsoever. The only thing I know is that it's a very violent case and there's a note. And that's all I need to know for now."

"Violent?"

"Very. I could hear it in Lestrade's voice, he was stressed, very stressed."

John only nodded and finished dressing, taking the robe and throwing it in the laundry basket. Then he passed by Sherlock and went to get his coat, getting ready to leave.

Ten minutes later they were both in a cab, side by side, being crushed by the heavy silence that fell in the small space.

"Sherlock?" John ended up calling after a while.

"Mm."

"Should… uh, should we talk… about, well, about what happened?" John asked, keeping his voice low and his eyes fixed in nothing in particular on the other side of the window.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his eyes falling on John.

"Okay… right," the good doctor breathed deeply. "Are we going to?"

"No, probably not."

"Okay, good. That's… good."

The cab stopped outside a gloomy meadow in the middle of some God forsaken place. John furrowed his eyebrows at the sight. In the distance he could spot the abandoned warehouse where they were supposed to be going. But obviously the road was too injured for the taxi to proceed, so he handed a bill to the cabbie and prepared himself to walk in the cold.

John took a deep breath and adjusted his coat. "It's going to snow," he murmured to himself looking up at the dark grey sky. "Soon," he added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and quickened his stride. "Don't start that again John. You can't smell snow. Now hurry up!"

John didn't answer. He just kept on walking, several steps behind his colleague, allowing himself a look at his behind. Sherlock had his hands inside his coat's pockets, so the back of the fabric was tight against the shape of Sherlock's frame. John smiled.

The building was old, very old and very gloomy. It had the looks of one of those American horror film sets, and an uncomfortable chill ran down John's back. He hated murky thingies.

It reminded him of the buildings in Afghanistan, half burnt-half demolished, but all so very hopelessly empty and lifeless. The amount of dead people he found inside those doors. As a medical man, it was almost physically painful each time they ran into another dead corpse. Sometimes young couples, about to start families; others were elderly people, wise men and women who had lived and taught so much; and then, much more regularly than he would've liked, children, little humans with all of their lives ahead of them.

That was the essence of John's night terrors. Not being shot or the sound of the land mines exploding, but the knowledge that if he had arrived ten minutes earlier, he could've saved so many innocent lives. Although he _knew_ it was not his fault, he couldn't help but feel like he had failed them, failed as a doctor, of course, but also as a human being.

"Doctor Watson, are you alright?" Lestrade's voice somehow over powered the voice of his thoughts, waking him from his mind's drift.

"Call me John, please," he said with a nod. "And yes, I'm fine, of course I'm fine, why shouldn't I be fine? I'm perfectly—"

"Fine?" Sherlock offered looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up."

"What do we have?" Sherlock asked, holding the evidence bag with the note. "It's the same paper type and it's definitely the same pen. Her hands were shaky when she wrote it though, her lettering is irregular at the edges," he mumbled. "She was upset. The girl who accidentally severed her own finger and laughed, was upset. What could possibly have troubled AJ?"

"John," Lestrade said looking closely at the army doctor. "I reckon you served in Afghanistan, and you have probably have seen a fair amount of violent deaths, but still, I feel like I should warn you, _both_ of you," he said capturing Sherlock's attention as well, "that this is a particularly distressing case."

Sherlock exchanged a quick look with John and they both nodded. Could it really be that bad? "Where are we? Take us to it," Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded and ducked under the police tape, holding it up for the two other men.

"Hello, Freak," Sally Donovan said as they got near the entrance to the warehouse.

"Sally. It's always so pleasant to see you," Sherlock said warmly, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

"You'll like this one. It looks like the type of crime we would see from you: mysterious, cruel and disturbing," she said bitterly.

Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry Sally. He'll come back to you, eventually. As soon as his wife turns her back—" he stopped at the sight of a man, coming out of the building. "Ah, Anderson. We were just talking about you. What a pleasant coincidence."

Sherlock's Cheshire grin was huge on his lips as he passed by the man. Sally grabbed John's arm and he stopped, looking inquiringly at her, and then at Sherlock, who was at the door, waiting for him with an annoyed expression.

"What are you still doing with him?" she asked John.

"I think that's none of your business," he answered, jerking his arm away from her grip.

He walked quickly towards the entrance, not waiting for retaliation. He was seriously getting sick of Sally buggering him with all the 'Sherlock's a psychopath and one day he's going to snap and strangle you with the strings of his violin' talk. He _knew_ Sherlock was better than that, he believed in him, and there was nothing that Sally, Anderson, or even Mycroft could say to convince him otherwise.

Lestrade led the way towards the room where the five bodies were found. He and Sherlock were chatting about the case, the latter getting more and more frustrated with the answers he was getting.

"What do you mean, there's no way to identify them through face recognition? Have you even tried?" Sherlock roared.

John exhaled and turned to Lestrade. "Look, he's Sherlock, he's bored and he needs to see the stuff already or we won't get any peace. And I'm really, _really,_ not in the mood for foreplay, so could you just get it on with?"

Lestrade nodded and opened the door.

A vile scent filled their nostrils and even Sherlock recoiled. Lestrade was the first to enter the room, followed by Sherlock and then John.

John's heart stopped. He took two steps back and considered leaving the room, getting a cab and just going home.

Five people, one woman, three men and a child, were lying naked on the floor with deep bruises and cuts all over their bodies. The woman and the child, a girl, had been violently raped and beaten up pretty badly. The men had their sexual organs mutilated, and several burn marks around their chest and genitalia area.

But the most disturbing, as incredible as it would seem, wasn't all of that brutality. The worse was that each and every one of the victims had their faces cut off – literally. From the hairline to the jaw line, there was not a trace of skin. The round orbs of their eyes were popping up, staring at them through layers of muscle in the most gruesome way.

John looked away, feeling a twist in his stomach. He looked over at Sherlock and noticed the distress and the paleness on his friend's features under the blank mask he was wearing; signs that anyone could've missed, but not John. He walked towards him and tugged gently at the sleeve of his coat.

"You alright?"

Sherlock looked at him, his expression softening when their eyes met. Reluctantly he smiled and nodded. "Quite so," he said. "You?"

"Fine. I'm… fine. Just tell me you'll stop him before anyone else dies," John said, trying to swallow down the bile rising in his stomach.

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat before dedicating his attention to the bodies.

John was watching him closely. He noticed the detective couldn't look at the scene without taking a break every three seconds. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, which was very unpleasant due to the terrible smell of the decomposing bodies, and then he continued with his observations.

"John, what do you think?" Sherlock asked.

The army doctor stepped forward and tried to clear out the images and memories that invaded his mind, calling the medical man in him. "They've been dead for at least four to five days, there are signs of larvae and eggs on the— God, what the fuck did they do to you?" John whispered.

"Focus," Sherlock said, stepping closer to him. "I need you to focus."

"Right, sorry. The edges of the cuts around the men's genitalia are bloody and irregular, so the mutilation occurred when they were still alive. And the blade used for that purpose was not the same used for the… rest."

"Go on," Sherlock encouraged.

"The cuts around their faces are sharp, clean. I would say they used a blade ten scalpel. The muscle doesn't seem too damaged. I would say, probably someone with a wide medical knowledge, most likely a surgeon."

John held the woman's hand in his and looked at the purple tone of the woman's nails. He frowned and did the same to the rest of the victims. He ventured a look at the victims' eyes, pushing away the urge to throw up the tea he had ingested earlier that afternoon. The eyes were, indeed bloodshot.

"Cause of death was asphyxiation. Why Asphyxiation? You raped them, you beat them, you mutilated them, you burned them, and then you decided to asphyxiate them? And as if that wasn't enough, you decided to rip their faces off! What kind of sick fucker are you?" John said, stripping his gloves and tossing them to the nearest bin.

He turned towards the door and started to march outside, when a gentle hand curled around his elbow.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I just need some… I need to punch a wall," John said. The grip on his arm loosened and he passed by Lestrade without a word.

Outside it was getting dark. He allowed himself a slow and deep breath, trying to wash away the nauseating scent still present in his nostrils. _Soon. Snow is coming and everything will be better then._

"Are you feeling okay? You look a little… green."

Sally Donovan was walking towards him with a smug smile plastered on her infuriatingly cheery face. John considered punching a Sally instead of punching a wall, but that wouldn't be a very smart thing to do.

"Did you see that crime scene? Did you take a look at the victims?" John asked her bitterly.

Sally looked taken aback at how harsh he was being. John was always kind and patient. Now he looked like a ticking bomb, ready to explode.

"No, I didn't. Detective Inspector Lestrade didn't allow anyone out of the forensics team to see the bodies," she said.

"I figured," he hissed. "When Sherlock comes out of there, Sergeant Donovan, you are going to apologise to him for the things you said upon our arrival. Because if you had seen the cruelty of the slaughter in that room; if you had seen the look in Sherlock's eyes, you would've never, ever had made the mistake of opening that sad little hole you have for a mouth," his eyes were darting through her. "Do yourself a favour and prove that you actually have at least a small hint of a brain, instead the manure factory Sherlock believes is taking place inside of your head."

He started walking away from her, shoving his hands inside his jeans pockets.

"This is what I meant when I told you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. He's starting to get to you, and soon John Watson will be nothing but a shadow of the past. You'll become just like him, and apparently it's already started," she shot after him.

John stood still, his head turning to face her. "Maybe that's not a bad thing. At least I'm not becoming you. _That_, I must say, would be offensive."

Five minutes later he was leaning against the side wall of the warehouse, looking dully at the darkening meadow. He led his left hand up, taking a breath on the fag placed between his thumb and index fingers. Yes. A fag. It wasn't like him to smoke. In fact he hadn't smoked since Afghanistan. But the occasion seemed to require it, so he ignored the doctor within and embraced the need his body was claiming.

The day's events started to weigh on him. _And to think all I wanted to do was bake some Christmas biscuits._ He led the cigarette to his lips again, the tip blazing orange in the twilight_. Just some bloody snowman shaped biscuits. Is that too much to ask?_ The smoke slid away from his lips and danced as the evening breeze passed by. He closed his eyes and hit the back of his head hard against the concrete wall, taking another deep breath on his fag.

Something wet rested on his cheek, just below his right eye. John smiled feeling the cold of it. He liberated the smoke from his lungs as the delicate wetness landed, this time, on his eyelashes. It was snowing. _Finally. It took you long enough._

The sound of footsteps filled the deserted area on the side of the warehouse. A hand reached out and snatched what remained of the cigarette out of his hand. John kept still, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the snowflakes as they touched his face. The sound of exhaling reached his ears from his left side, followed by more footsteps. He heard some rumbling and then a warm stripe of fabric was being wrapped around his neck. He opened his eyes and looked straight into that deep blue abyss that was the other man's gaze.

"What about you?" he asked, looking at Sherlock's naked neck.

"I have a nice woollen coat. I'll manage," the taller man said. "I can't afford for you to be ill. Not now."

John nodded and glanced down at Sherlock's hand, his long fingers holding the, now extinct, cigarette.

"Yeah, right," he muttered, looking up again.

He reached the lapel of Sherlock's coat and brought him down, pressing their lips together in a passionate kiss. His hand ran to the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulling him tighter against him.

Sherlock dropped the filter and leant his hand against the wall, supporting his weight against the smaller man in front of him. John whimpered and laced his hand on Sherlock's wet curls, forcing his lips to part. His tongue all but invaded Sherlock's mouth, hungry, angry and so very desperately.

"Jo-mph… John…" Sherlock called against John's mouth.

"What?" the man asked, breaking the contact and huffing in frustration.

Sherlock breathed a couple of deep breaths before talking again. "It's snowing—"

"So what?"

"It's getting late—"

"So _what?_" John repeated, rolling his eyes.

"And Lestrade is standing right there looking at us. Not that I care, of course, but he's doing that thing with his face and it's annoying me profoundly," Sherlock said, furrowing his brows as if to give emphasis to his words.

John ventured a glance to his left just in time to see the smirk on Lestrade's lips, before he turned his face away.

"Yes, I see what you mean," John said, letting go of Sherlock's lapel. "Can we go home now?"

"No. We still have people to see, questions to answer, and clues to follow. First we have to stop at the yard, and then we've got to go to Bart's. Maybe Molly can help me with the research. I have to call Mycroft, unfortunately, and see if he can arrange a little chat with—" Sherlock looked down to meet John's scowl. "Problem?"

"Do you know who they are, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Sorry, who?"

"Those people, I'm sure you can remember them – three men, one woman and a child. Those five bodies had a name and a family once. Do you know who they are?"

"Come on, John. Even _I'm_ not that good. I can't identify a body without a face! That's up to him," Sherlock answered motioning his head to Lestrade.

John snorted in disbelief. "How do you do that? How do you witness such a macabre scene and act like it doesn't get to you in the slightest?"

Sherlock took a step back and looked coldly at John. "I told you once, John. Caring about the dead will not help me get to the stuff that matters. They're just dead flesh. Why bother to occupy my mind with what no longer has a remedy, when I could, and very well am, ignore that and focus on finding the ones who harmed them? Look how good caring does you!"

Silence fell upon them. Lestrade looked harshly at Sherlock, disappointment and disbelief showing clearly in the older man's eyes.

John shook his head and looked down. "Right. Sorry. My bad," he lifted his gaze to Sherlock's eyes. "I forgot you don't have a heart." he muttered bitterly, turning away and hitting Sherlock's arm as he started walking.

No one dared to talk during the way back to the centre of London. Due to the lack of traffic movement in the warehouse area, Sherlock agreed on taking a lift from Lestrade. The trip was as heavy as it could get. John wasn't talking to Sherlock. Sherlock was trying to figure out how to get John to talk to him. Lestrade was just too scared to even consider opening his mouth. It was a jolly half-hour.

When arriving to the Yard, Sherlock waited for John to say something and break the terrible silence. He even kept the car door open for him to get out without trouble. John took two steps and Sherlock noticed, with panic, that he was limping slightly from his funny leg. Was it his fault?

"John, please," Sherlock called softly, trying to get the doctor's attention.

John didn't answer. He didn't even give a sign of hearing Sherlock's words. He nodded to Lestrade and shook his hand before turning away and walking towards the main road.

"You should go with him, Sherlock," John heard Lestrade say.

"I can't. I have a promise to fulfil."

Those were the last words John heard before closing the cab door.

He leant against the seat and closed his eyes. He just needed to sleep. Grumpiness was going to fade at some point and everything would be well. How could Sherlock spoil everything with his daft words? It was snowing, for God's sake! How was that man able to put John in a bad mood _while it was snowing?_

_Sometimes I think of six impossible things before breakfast._

Where had he heard that before? _God I need to sleep_, he thought while yawning.

"Big day, huh?" the cabbie said.

"You have no idea, mate," John answered looking at the man through the rear-view mirror.

"Believe me, sir. I do. I've lost count of the people I had to drive around with boxes and bags and last hour Christmas shopping," he said.

"I can imagine."

"The worst part is that I'm not even going to be able to spend Christmas with my daughter."

John felt a wave of compassion towards the man. "What's your name?"

"Sebastian, sir."

"Well, Sebastian. I'm sure she loves you no matter what," John said, as he asked himself why a complete stranger would open his heart to him.

Maybe it was easier to talk when you knew you weren't going to meet again. Maybe, in the middle of John's grumpy humour, Sebastian had seen some resemblance and felt compelled to just get that out of his system. After all, cabbies were driving all day long; sometimes they didn't talk at all. John felt honoured to have been chosen by this man to keep his words.

"I hope you're right," he said, stopping the car.

"Well, if it serves of any consolation, I think I fell in love with a sociopath. So it's going to be a crappy Christmas for me too," John said with a chuckle.

Sebastian laughed and nodded at him. "Maybe not. I still believe in Christmas miracles. 221b Baker Street. Here we are sir."

John nodded and paid the fare. "It was nice to meet you, Sebastian."

"Likewise, doctor," the man said before disappearing into the darkness.

John fished for his keys and opened the door with the slight sensation that something was off. He led his hand to scratch his head and felt the soft fabric of Sherlock's scarf around his neck. Maybe that's what was wrong. Sherlock wasn't with him, he was away, solving puzzles and being insensitive about people's feelings. _What a child._

He went to knock on Mrs Hudson's door and retrieve the dough for the biscuits. He could at least try to finish them. A sheet of printer paper was balancing on the door, dark flowery lettering dancing along the white surface.

_My dear boys,_

_I've gone to Middlesborough to spend Christmas with my family._

_John, I left the dough to your biscuits on the highest shelf of your fridge. Please tell Sherlock I don't want __any dead things__ contaminating my appliances!_

_Sherlock__, I love you dearly, but there are things I can't tolerate:_

_1 – You better stop making holes in my wall. I would be happy if you spared Dr Watson the extra work he has to try to cover up for you._

_2 – I want my kitchen 'body part-free'. If you really need to bring those vile things into the house, make sure you keep them only for the necessary time. Which brings me to_

_3 – DO NOT, __ON ANY OCCASION__, USE MY FRIDGE TO HIDE YOUR SEVERED BODY PARTS! I may be full of life, but my heart is getting too old to handle any more severed hands or feet when I'm fetching my food._

_4 – I know it was John's request to give you back the skull, but I just can't stand the way it looks at me. So I hid it again (have fun finding it, consider it my Christmas present)._

_5 – Be kind to John. A friend like that is hard to find and you, more than anyone else, should know it. Preserve him and, again ON ANY OCCASION do not let him go without a fight._

_I shall be back in January. Have a very nice Christmas and a happy New Year._

_Love,_

_Martha Hudson._

_P.S. I mean it. Be nice Sherlock!_

John smiled and turned to go to his room. He wasn't even hungry. He just wanted to sleep peacefully, or at least try to do so. It wasn't like him to pray, but if it helped him get a full night of sleep, he would be glad to give it a try. What harm could it do, anyway?

He stripped his wet clothing and put on his pyjamas, wrapping his neck with the dark blue scarf once more. It smelled like Sherlock. Maybe that could put his mind at rest while sleeping. He dived inside the sea of soft sheets and closed his eyes, smiling as the scent of Sherlock's cologne registered in his brain.

John closed his eyes and turned so the pressure was put on his good shoulder. Less than five minutes later he was asleep.

…

It was a chilly morning. Wait. It was… a chilly… _morning_! John sat straight up in bed as he watched the clarity come in through the window of his room.

"Oh my God! It's Christmas! Well, technically it's Christmas _Eve_, but oh my God! I slept! Fucking hell, I really slept one whole night without having a nightmare! Motherfucking cabbie was right about Christmas miracles," John murmured to himself. "What time is it?"

He glanced at his alarm clock. Red digits announced 10:23am.

"Holy shit!"

He jumped around, celebrating. Then he put on his robe and descended the steps to the sitting room, dreaming of a nice hot cuppa and a toast coated with thick amounts of strawberry jam. Then he could work on the biscuits and everything was going to be fine.

As he stepped into the room, he scowled. _Something's wrong with this picture,_ he thought, looking around. The fire was lit, his laptop on, and the telly was chatting away, but there was no Sherlock. Yet, that wasn't really what he felt was odd in that room.

"Oh God," John breathed out as he took a second look.

A pile of books was rising in the corner of the room, strategically balanced in a pyramid. Colourful lights wrapped around the pile like a snake, flashing in tones of red, green and blue. Two socks, a green and a red one, were hanging on the side of the hearth. John could spot a sugar cane coming out of the green sock. The wall behind the sofa also sported a couple of decorations and… was that mistletoe? John just stood there, looking wide-eyed at the merry room around him.

"John," called the soft baritone.

"I woke up, I went downstairs to ask Mrs Hudson for the recipe for the biscuits, and then I came back up. I started to make the biscuits, and then Sherlock helped me with my shoulder. Mycroft came; I was cross with him, and ended up sucking Sherlock off. Shower, then very creepy crime scene. I had a fight with Sherlock and then I finally came home, where I went to sleep very soon and woke up very late to find the sitting room transformed in to Santa's fucking Village," John mumbled as he went through the events of the previous day. "I don't remember decorating the room. Sweet baby Jesus! Did I sleepwalk? Oh I hope not!"

"John?"

"Can you wait a minute, Sherlock? I'm trying to freak out, here!"

"John!" Sherlock called desperately.

The doctor turned to him to find a tray of food in his hands. Steam was coming out of his favourite cup and a couple of warm toasts were piled on a plate, next to the jar of his favourite strawberry jam. He took one step back and looked intently at Sherlock. _What the fuck?_

"I'm still sleeping, aren't I? I knew it was too good to be true. First the nightmare-free night, then the Christmas spree in the sitting room… Something horrible is going to happen soon, and I'm going to wake up and it's 3:00am and I'm soaked wet in sweat and my heart will be racing, _probably_ because I got shot, more likely because I saw you die," he paused and closed his eyes. "Any time now. My mind can't be this cruel. Come on, John, wake up you bastard!"

"What are you doing? Why do you say that, John?" Sherlock asked, tipping his head to a side.

"Why— Look at you!"

"I know I'm no Heston Blumenthal, but I think I can manage a couple of toasts."

"No, Sherlock, not _that_. Well, that too, obviously, but it's not— Really look at you!" John said in despair. "You're wearing a vest! You. Are. Wearing. A. Fucking. Tuxedo. Vest!"

"Problem?"

"You never wear vests!" John said. "Come on! I need to wake up now! Please spare me the nightmare part!"

Sherlock looked hurt. "You don't like it then?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Sit," Sherlock said making a motion for John to sit in his chair. He deposited the food tray on his lap and swirled around the room in his vest. John still had to get used to the idea of Sherlock wearing a vest. It made him look so damn hot!

"Care to explain? Anytime before I wake up would be fine," John said, removing Sherlock's scarf from around his neck and putting it on the back of his armchair.

"You are not sleeping, John. I thought that, since we're going to spend our first Christmas together, I could try and make it feel more like home. I wasn't prepared, as you might suspect, so I went down to Mrs Hudson's and _borrowed_ her lights and decorations. She's not going to use them anyway. And then I remembered that we were supposed to have a Christmas tree. I tried to bring Mrs Hudson's tree but it was too heavy for me to carry upstairs all by myself, so I thought a bit more and… voila!" he said pointing at the pyramid of books.

"Original stuff," John said, nibbling on his toast.

"Right! I thought that books are made of paper and paper is made of trees! It was the closest thing I could think of in such short notice. Thank God the lights were working correctly. Unfortunately, according to tradition, we have to put a star on top of the thing. I'm still working on that," Sherlock said moving quickly to the other side of the room. "Those fluffy things, I'm not sure what to call them or what to do with them, so I taped them along the wall. It looks kinda nice, now that I see it from this perspective."

"Sherlock…"

"For the stockings, I must say I almost gave up. But then I remembered you complaining about how the washing machine always seemed to eat up one of the socks, and that you had so many unmarried socks you could start a stocking online dating site. So I went through the unlucky bachelors and found these two!" he motioned proudly at the hanging socks. "It's perfect because they're all Christmas-y and jolly and colourful and there's stuff inside! I also found candy in Mrs Hudson's cupboards, so why not? You like candy, so I brought it for you! Because you like it!"

"Christ! He's high on caffeine again," John whispered shaking his head.

"Did you say something?" Sherlock asked looking at John with a quirked eyebrow.

"Me? No, nothing!" John finished his tea. "Where did this come from, anyway?" he asked pointing at the empty tray.

Sherlock smiled, pride making way to his face. "Well, I noticed, last night, that you didn't have dinner – there were no dishes in the sink – so I thought I could bring something for you to eat, this morning. After burning up six slices of bread, I finally got it the way you like it. It was just in time to hear you move around in bed. When I was ready to go upstairs, you were already here. I thought about making some orange juice, but I don't know how, and we didn't have any oranges, so I made the orange tea. I like that tea, it tastes like you."

John turned his head to Sherlock as the latter fell to his knees in front of him. Sherlock rested his hands on John's knees and looked up at him. "Are you still cross with me, John?"

"You wanted to bring me breakfast in bed?" John put the tray down on the floor beside his chair.

"Jonathan, Michael, Mortimer, Lucy, and Amanda." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"The victims, John. Jonathan Smith, Michael Brass, Mortimer, Lucy and Amanda Tyler. The men worked in a bank, the woman was a teacher, and the girl was starting to learn how to play the viola," Sherlock said. "I found out who did that to them. I have fulfilled my promise."

"Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" John got up and went to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock kneeling in the middle of the floor. "Now would be a good time to wake up, John. Please just wake up," he muttered as he put his cup down in the sink.

"I thought you would be happy," Sherlock said, his head bowing down in disappointment. "I don't like it when you get cross. It makes me feel… bad. I don't know how to behave _human_ John, so I tried to think like you. You're the closest and best example I have to follow. Did I do something wrong? Is this about the star on the tree? Or is this about the tree itself? I couldn't carry it alone, maybe I should've asked for help, but you know how I am! Besides, a book tree is much more original! You said so yourself!" he paused. "John?"

The doctor went back to the sitting room and stopped in front of Sherlock, looking down at his figure. He silently held out his hands, offering them to him. Sherlock looked puzzled but he reached John's hands and let the other man pull him up.

Then John was leading him out of the room, walking slowly and always looking straight into Sherlock's eyes. With a slight kick, he opened the door to Sherlock's room and sat the man down on the bed.

"Try to get some rest and sober up," John said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll make you some tea."

Sherlock's chest hurt with the disappointment in John's voice. He saw as the doctor made his way to the door and he jolted up from bed, crossing the room in three long strides. He curled his fingers around John's arm and pressed him against the door.

"John, don't," he said, running a hand through the soft strands of John's golden hair.

John sighed. "We've been here before, Sherlock," he said.

"Yes, we have. But this time I won't let go."

John pressed his hands on Sherlock's chest and pushed him away. "I'm going to ask this once. And I want an honest reply, Sherlock," he started. "Don't start with your mind games or manipulations, alright? If I even suspect you're not being sincere, I will turn around and bloody well pretend you don't exist."

Sherlock gazed at the doctor with something that resembled alarm and confusion. _What's he on about?_ "I promise," he said.

John nodded and took one step closer to him. "What do you want from me?"

Sherlock didn't know what to answer. What was he supposed to say?

"Be honest," John warned again.

"I… I honestly don't know," Sherlock stammered.

He saw the hurt in his friend's eyes. Why did _he_ feel hurt too?

"Right," said John turning away and opening the door. "I'll make you that tea. You try to rest."

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, looking dully at the open door.

_What on earth are you doing?_

_Oh, good. You're back; I missed you so very much. Wait… no, I didn't._

_You're going to lose him Sherlock! If you lose John you lose your sanity._

_I can hardly see how this is any of your concern._

_John's right. You're an idiot._

_Only John gets to call me that. Get out of my head!_

_Call for him. Tell him what you want!_

"But what do I want?" Sherlock roared in frustration. "All my life what kept me going was the work! Now I have this… this distraction that keeps me from thinking straight! Worse than that, I think even less straight when he's _not_ around! So who exactly am I? I've lived for thirty-three years believing in one thing and now, out of the blue, everything changes! Why?"

Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned around just in time to get a glimpse of John's eyes before their lips met. Two strong arms wrapped around his shoulders as he got closer, pressing their bodies together.

"You idiot," John breathed, pushing Sherlock against the wall. "You bloody fucking idiot."

John kissed along Sherlock's jaw line, brushing his tongue along the length of that magnificent swan neck. Then his teeth teased around Sherlock's earlobe as his hands started to unbutton the tuxedo vest Sherlock was wearing.

Getting the hint, Sherlock's hands untied the knot of John's robe and let it slide down to the floor. The thin layer of cotton covering John's chest felt like a whole concrete wall. His hand surrounded the blonde's middle and rested on the small of his back, as the other hungrily pulled his t-shirt up, caressing the velvety skin of John's tummy.

John, glad to have finally gotten rid of the vest, tried to concentrate on the small buttons of Sherlock's shirt. His focus completely blurred with the feeling of Sherlock's hand running over his chest.

"Just get on with it, John," Sherlock whimpered, and that was all John needed.

He tore the shirt open, not caring about the flying buttons, and attacked that long, lean torso with his lips as his hands discarded the remains of the shirt. He felt his own t-shirt being pulled up and impatiently broke away so Sherlock could slide the fabric over his head.

Sherlock conducted them to the side of the bed as John worked on his belt, hands shaking with the feeling of the taller man's lips on his neck. Finally he was able to toss the bloody thing aside and prepared to have a fight with the fly and zipper when Sherlock's unusually warm hands slipped through the waist band of his slacks, grasping his bare arse and pulling him tight against his hips.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

"John…"

Sherlock didn't have to finish that sentence. John felt it poking against the lower part of his tummy and groaned as he realised through unspoken words, what Sherlock needed, or better yet, what he _wanted_.

That icy-blue gaze was burning in his flesh and John teetered as if he could feel its touch. Somehow his mind could function enough to undress Sherlock's trousers, and of course the task was accomplished with the dexterity of a train wreck, but he was able to finish the mission successfully, and John gloated himself for that.

Sherlock gently pushed him to the bed as he stepped out of the pool of fabric at his feet. John observed closely the so wished figure of a naked Sherlock as the latter climbed on top of him with that natural feline grace of his. _It's so fucking unfair_, John thought as his hands clutched at the detective's hips.

He felt the soft hands searching over his chest, making sure he could feel every pore, every hair, every scar. The look in Sherlock's eyes was of pure worship and want, and it was so intense it made John feel more naked than he ever had. Sherlock's hands descended to the waistline of his pyjamas and started pulling them down, slowly, taking in every inch of exposed skin.

He was not even breathing. The anticipation, the fear, the thrill, the need of John, everything was blinding his basic survival instincts. John lifted his hips slightly, and Sherlock pulled the slacks all the way down to John's ankles, never breaking eye contact. His gaze marvelled at John's exposed body, a smile stretching his perfect bow-shaped lips.

"Give me a second," Sherlock said, stretching his body over John and reaching for the first drawer of his nightstand. He retrieved a bottle of lube and handed it over to John. "Here."

The blonde looked at the thing in his hand and smirked at Sherlock.

"Do I want to know?"

"It was for an experiment," Sherlock said lowering his head and planting kisses down John's stomach. "I might have bought more than was required."

John parted his lips and gasped as he felt Sherlock's teeth graze on the curve of his hipbone. "How much more are we talking about?"

Sherlock's tongue ran from John's navel to the curve of his neck, "About five bottles," he said.

"It would be a crying shame if we let it all go to waste then," John said embracing Sherlock's hips and turning, inverting their positions.

John clutched Sherlock's arms above his head, pressing him against the mattress, and kissed his lips once more. The sounds coming out of Sherlock's throat were hardly human, and the most spectacular thing John had ever heard. He kissed all the way down his chest, stomach, and hips, and curled his hand around Sherlock's erection, stroking it gently.

"My God, you're beautiful," he said.

He got a moan for an answer and smiled. Opening the lube bottle, he coated three of his fingers and captured Sherlock's eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, moving his hips up impatiently, asking for John's contact.

"Pillow. Hips," John said.

He loved this about Sherlock. You didn't have to say a lot for the man to understand. Obediently, the detective grabbed a pillow and put it under his hips, letting John adjust himself to the right position.

Sherlock felt the slick tip of John's finger enter his tightness and gasped, digging his hands in the clean white sheet.

"John," he called hoarsely.

John led the other hand to Sherlock's stomach, capturing his attention. "It's alright. Trust me, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded and tried to relax. John went slowly, giving Sherlock's body time to adjust, and giving himself the pleasure of hearing Sherlock's deep voice, moaning in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Two fingers in and John started scissoring inside him, stretching the muscles. The third went in and something exploded inside Sherlock. What was that marvellous feeling? He wanted it again. John pushed his fingers back inside him and there it was – that blinding sensation. A couple of words escaped his lips but he had no idea what was said.

"Christ, Sherlock…" John whined, biting his lip.

Whatever Sherlock said seemed to have fuelled John up even more. "John, please. I'm ready. I want… I want you inside me, now. John…"

John didn't need to be told twice. He quickly coated his own cock with lube and breathed deeply. _Okay. This is it_, he thought. And then he let himself slide inside Sherlock's tightness. It felt so bloody good! John stopped middle way to gather his thoughts before thrusting completely into the man he longed so much for.

Impatience and need made Sherlock move his hips up and down, slightly, demanding John's full attention of his movements.

"Sherlock, could you hold on a second?" John breathed with a smile.

"No, John! I want you! I want more!" Sherlock whined.

John thrust a couple of times before finding Sherlock's prostate, his medical knowledge kicking in for his benefit. The words coming out of Sherlock's lips were like firewood.

"Oh, John. Oh fuck, John! More!" Sherlock yelled huskily, as the doctor hit his prostate in every single thrust.

John was in heaven. One of Sherlock's hands let go of the sheet and curled around his prick, needing that extra friction, the other found John's, still resting on his stomach. Their fingers entwined and their eyes locked. How did Sherlock manage to look so fucking beautiful?

"Harder, John," Sherlock demanded. "I want you to fuck me harder!"

His eyes were dark with lust, his lips swollen, his hands warm. John granted Sherlock his wish, way past the point of giving a fuck if he was hurting him or not; the sound of skin against skin and the hard breath intakes from both men breaking the silence of the room. Sherlock's cries were a combination of swearing and John's name.

Sherlock was barely moving his hand, the thrusting did all the work for him, and honestly, he was just too overwhelmed to even bother. John felt so wonderful inside him. He opened his eyes and looked at John. His skin was glistening with sweat; his head was lolling back, lips parted as he breathed Sherlock's name.

"Joh— I can't… I'm going to— Holy fuck, John!" he cried as he got closer and closer.

John wasn't far from it himself. He looked Sherlock in the eyes, his hips moving harder and quicker.

"Let me hear you," he growled. "Come for me, Sherlock. I want to hear you come."

Sherlock's grasp on John's hand tightened and he let his head fall back onto the pillow, as his fist and John's thrusts brought him to climax.

"Oh God! John! Bloody fucking hell! John…" Sherlock yelled, spurts of semen coming out of his prick, landing on his tummy and chest with some accurate precision. "Come inside me, John. I want to feel it," he groaned. "_My John_."

That was it. John shivered violently as wave after wave of pleasure invaded his body, mercilessly. Months of need and lust being flushed out just like that, along with the remains of his sanity. He emptied himself inside Sherlock, calling his name like a prayer, just like he always did. Then, tired but content, he let himself fall forwards, resting his head on Sherlock's chest.

None of them moved or dared to talk. Sherlock ran a hand over the doctor's broad shoulders in a soft caress. Deciding that Sherlock had endured his weight for long enough, John rolled off him, taking the pillow below Sherlock's hips with him.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, brushing a lock of Sherlock's dark hair away from his sweaty forehead.

"Most definitely. Although I suspect I won't be able to walk straight for the next day or so," Sherlock answered, a huge grin plastered on his peaceful face.

John chuckled and moved closer. Sherlock turned so he faced his doctor. He held out one finger and traced the design of the RAMC logo tattooed on John's arm. He never cared much about it – it was just a tattoo like any other. Yet now, he thought that it was one of the most arousing things he'd ever seen.

"I'm feeling tired, John," he said.

John's eyes never left his face. He looked tired indeed, and John could bet his life on the assumption that Sherlock hadn't had any sleep the previous night. Investigating a vicious murder and preparing John's Christmas Village was tiring enough, and adding the extremely hot sex, John could fathom just how exhausted Sherlock was feeling now. Hell, he had slept all night and was feeling completely whacked.

"Try to get some rest," he murmured, as Sherlock laid his head on his chest. "I'll be here, I promise."

Sherlock smiled and inhaled the scent of John's skin. John's arm was embracing his shoulders, now, pulling him tighter against him.

"May I know since when?" he asked.

"Since the first time I laid my eyes on you, I think. But with the things you said at Angelo's that night… I don't know, I've tried not to think of it. I knew I didn't stand a chance against your current husband. I hope he doesn't get angry with you for this, though," John said with a laugh.

"We divorced a long time ago," Sherlock said.

"Really? When?"

"Do you remember that time when I did something particularly daft and then you came and saved my life?"

"It depends. Which time are we talking about here?"

"The very first," Sherlock muttered against John's chest.

"The cabbie?"

"Mm"

"Of course I remember," John said bowing his head down and burying it in Sherlock's soft curls, his heart clenching at the thought of what could've happened if John had arrived five minutes later. "How could I forget?"

"Well, that's when I knew that _work_ couldn't stand a chance against _John Watson_," Sherlock whispered, nestling his face in John's chest, closing his eyes.

John smiled to himself. All that time and his cravings were just a couple of words away. Who knew? "Tomorrow it's Christmas day, Sherlock," he said, "We're going to have a white Christmas."

"Can you really smell snow?" Sherlock asked, his voice clearly sleepy.

"Don't think about that now. Just rest a little."

"John?"

"Mm."

"Can we stay at the flat tomorrow? Celebrating indoors…" he paused and looked up at John's eyes. "Preferably naked?"

"My God. I've created a monster," John said laughing.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock growled, cuddling in to John's chest again.

Shortly after, John heard the soft breathing and felt the hot huffs of air against his chest. _This will change everything, _he thought. _I just hope it changes for the better._ He pulled the sheet up and covered their naked bodies, carefully as to not wake Sherlock. Then, stroking Sherlock's dark locks, he let himself slip into slumber. He was sure the nightmares weren't coming this time. As long as he had Sherlock, he would be safe.


	9. Hello Sexy

**Chapter 9 – Hello Sexy**

Sherlock let himself fall heavily on the couch, hiding his face in the soft cushions. His robe was wrapped tightly around him, like a cocoon. He breathed in and out, slowly, as if every breath was his last. It surely felt like it.

He heard the door close downstairs and curled himself further in a ball. The annoying sound of the plastic bags and John's heavy steps announced that the man was still angry with him.

It wasn't Sherlock's fault... _entirely_. Well, okay, it was. But John was overreacting… sort of. To be fair, and if Sherlock was the kind of man that would easily apologise for a misunderstanding (yes, because Sherlock doesn't make _mistakes_… misunderstandings, yes, but not mistakes), he would gladly assume his fault on the matter and seal it with a wild passionate kiss that would probably end up in another round of sweaty, fascinating sex. But this time, Sherlock had a fairly good argument, which he was ready to use if the conversation arose at some point.

John passed by him in the sitting room without saying a single word and went to the kitchen, banging the cupboards and making as much noise as he could. Sherlock scowled at his attitude.

"You're behaving like such a child!" he yelled at John, turning around in the couch to face the entrance to the kitchen.

John stopped the noises for a couple of seconds before coming in Sherlock's sight. He furrowed his eyebrows and shot _the look_ at Sherlock.

"I will so not begin to talk about childish attitudes," John said. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm not the one sulking on the couch," he added making a gesture towards the younger man in front of him.

"Shut up," Sherlock roared, hiding his face again.

John shook his head and went back to the task of making as much noise as he could to annoy Sherlock. Putting the shopping into place has never been so fun. He smiled to himself as he closed the overhead cupboards with loud slams.

Why was John cross? Simple, he turned Sherlock into a sex addict… more or less. It wasn't like he didn't enjoy it – God knew how much he loved sex with Sherlock – see, the problem was that because of Sherlock's new addiction, he had gotten in a nasty fight with Mycroft, who accused them of indecent public exposure.

_"We're on the couch of a sitting room that happens to belong to our flat! How is it indecent public exposure?"_ John had yelled at him. _"You were the one coming in without knocking!"_

Then Mycroft had started yelling back at John, until Sherlock jumped in at his defence, clearly murdering his brother with his eyes. Not for shouting at John, of course, but to have interrupted them.

After that John felt small, oh so small, as the two brothers exchanged heated words in what seemed like a sixteenth century play. As they tried to outwit each other, John huffed and slowly tried to cover his half-naked body with the blanket. Ten more minutes of hatred words passed, until John had finally lost his patience.

_"I pray thee, cease thy counsel, which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve,"_ John said getting up and looking between the two Holmes brothers. His chest was bare, his jeans were open and his briefs were half showing, but he didn't give a toss about it.

Sherlock turned his head to John, half a smile on his Cupid's bow lips. _"What are you doing?"_ he asked, amused.

_"I believe he's reciting Shakespeare,"_ Mycroft said with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice.

_"You two are just standing there, talking fancy and ignoring me. Honestly, I felt abandoned here,"_ John said to Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft's input. _"So, shall thee concede me the honour of belonging in your so respectable inner circle, or I fear I might find myself in need of asking thy big fat… curiosity… to kindly get the fuck off my accommodations, for I was Oh, so busy trying to get in thy brother's fucking long johns."_ John said solemnly, turning to Mycroft this time_. "My lord,"_ he added with a small curtsy.

_"I believe that was not Shakespeare anymore,"_ Sherlock said, smiling widely.

_"Oh, I like to improvise now and then. It adds a certain je ne sais quoi to it, don't you think?"_

He couldn't quite remember what happened next. He just felt a big mass of Sherlock tackling him down to the sofa. Apparently, Sherlock liked to hear him talking fancy just as much as he liked hearing Sherlock talking dirty.

"It was hardly my fault that Mycroft decided to show up in that exact moment, John," Sherlock yelled from his place on the couch, bringing the doctor back to the present.

"Bullshit, Sherlock. You knew exactly when he was coming. That's why you were so keen with the idea of doing it on the stairs. It was a bloody battle just to get you to the couch," John mumbled while walking to the sitting room. "It was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever been through. And _plus_, you ruined my biscuits."

"Yes, _that_ was partially my fault," Sherlock said smirking.

"Partially? It was _entirely_ your fault Sherlock," John said as he bent down to pick up Sherlock's cup from the coffee table.

"Stop complaining," Sherlock said grabbing his arm and pulling him down, making John fall on top of him.

"No! My biscuits burned because of you. I'm mourning," John said trying to get rid of Sherlock's grasp.

"I told you it wasn't my fault," John glared at him and he exhaled. "_Entirely_."

"Oh really? What's your excuse, then?"

"You could've always said _no_."

John scowled, "You've got a point there," he admitted. "But, you didn't play fair— Could you please stop that?" he snapped, slapping Sherlock's hands away. "I have to refuel or I swear I'm going to collapse."

"Pardon?"

"Food, Sherlock. I need to eat," John said rolling his eyes. He saw the magic grin on Sherlock's lips. "Everything is innuendo in your head right now, isn't it?"

"Pretty much, yes," Sherlock confessed wrapping one of his long limbs around John's middle and pulling him closer. "Don't worry about food, John. Not now."

"Not ever," the doctor murmured.

"According to my calculations, we could still do it at least two times before the lack of food started to make an influence on your performance. Better yet, you are far more resilient than the average man, so I would say you still have enough fuel for, let's say, three or four?"

John looked startled at Sherlock. "How many coffees did you have this morning?"

"About three and a half," Sherlock motioned to the forgotten half-empty cup on top of the coffee table. "But that's off the point. I've been researching. This whole situation is quite new to me, as you very well know," Sherlock said. "Come on, John. Stay. It's Christmas!" he asked, wrapping another set of limbs around John.

The man tried to struggle back, but when he finally managed to get rid of one arm, two more seemed to grow out of nowhere. It was like fighting an octopus.

John huffed and adjusted himself next to Sherlock, lying down beside him, his back pressed against Sherlock's chest. "Christmas was two days ago," John said remembering the Mycroft incident once more. "Believe me, I tried very hard to forget about it."

Sherlock ignored it and started kissing John's skin, pulling at the collar of his jumper so he could have better access to his neck, slowly and methodically as he always did when exploring. "John?"

"That's me," John said, tilting his head back so Sherlock could reach his Adam's apple.

"Do you remember that thing you asked me, that day?" Sherlock asked, grazing his teeth down John's collarbone.

John seemed lost. "What thing?" he murmured.

"I did reply honestly, then," Sherlock continued, knowing that would be sufficient for him to get the hint.

"Oh… that."

"And if you asked me today, I would answer the exact same thing," Sherlock pulled away and tightened the grasp around John's waist, as if he was afraid the good doctor would escape his embrace.

John closed his eyes, breathing slowly. "Sherlock, if you want do it, then I suggest you shut up and keep kissing. Otherwise I'm going to put something in my stomach," he said quietly.

"But John—"

"But what, Sherlock? Fine! You don't know what you want with me. I'm just going to enjoy it while it lasts, then. Use me and abuse me while you're trying to find out what is it you want. When you've had enough then let me know. But for now don't talk about it. Let me have this. Let me have this tiny little hope, Sherlock, because it's the first light I see in months, and if I don't grab it now I'll be left in the darkness again," John's voice broke and he breathed deeply, his eyes firmly closed.

Sherlock was silent, his breath warm against the back of John's neck. "John…"

"Look," John started, trying to gather his composure. He took his time before talking again, trying to speak as firmly as he could. "I know you're bored, and frustrated and angry because of the entire Moriarty situation. Hell,_ I_ am too! And I understand, Sherlock, I really do understand. All of those emotions were fighting for release and I happened to be around."

Sherlock tightened his arms even further.

"I know that if Lestrade calls you with another note, if you get a lead on that fucker, you'll forget me in a snap, and I wouldn't expect anything else of you. I would be an idiot if I did. Well, even more of an idiot," John felt the warm air on his neck again, as Sherlock chuckled. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Part of what makes you great is your ability to forget – or delete, as you put it – irrelevant facts of everyday life. Why would sex be an exception, if for the last thirty-three years it fitted so perfectly well in your 'irrelevant stuff' folder?"

"Besides, you're asexual. You might feel attracted to what we have now, but it will eventually just fade away and fall in the mist until you have another breakdown. It's not the feeling you seek, Sherlock. It's the adrenaline, the thrill, the excitement. You said work couldn't stand a chance against me. Well I bet that if Lestrade called you now, you would be in the street in less than a blink."

As if to reinforce John's words, Sherlock's phone decided to beep. The latter didn't move, but John felt a hint of hesitation on his grasp.

"Now _that's_ something that only happens in the movies," John murmured, scowling. He gently started to disentangle himself from Sherlock's limbs. "Go ahead, Sherlock. You know you want it. I'm going to make us something to eat."

Sherlock watched as John adjusted his jumper and silently stepped out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen.

_You should have told him._

_Oh, not you again. At least you could change your voice. Lestrade would be a fine option. He has the same habit of patronising me._

_You should have told him._

_I already got that part, thank you. Now get out of my head and go haunt someone else. Try nuns. They must be fun to haunt._

_You should have told him._

_Oh, goodness. Now you're repeating yourself. How sad is that?_

_Why didn't you tell him?_

_Because… I didn't know how._

_Yes you did. Words were never a problem for you._

John's phone beeped in the kitchen, reminding Sherlock of his own text, still waiting to be read. He looked over his shoulder and gazed at his gadget with a scornful look.

_John is my only friend. If I make the mistake of pushing him away…_

_So you prefer to let him think you're using him for sex._

_Really good sex, though. The best I've ever had._

_The only you've ever had._

_And he has a point. His explanations are valid. I am an asexual, who is frequently bored and frustrated and all that. Why bother changing his mind about that? He already said he understood._

_Sure, Sherlock. Why bother._

_I don't like your tone._

_Well, I'm in your head. I have the tone you're giving me._

John's phone beeped again. Apparently he was ignoring his mobile just as much as Sherlock was ignoring his.

_I will tell him._

_Right._

_I will. I promise._

_Are you promising me that, just so I'll leave?_

_Yes. Is it working?_

_You're only fooling yourself Sherlock. Be careful or you will lose him._

Sherlock reached out to his mobile and stared at the screen before he pressed _read._ He didn't want a text. He wanted John!

"Here, some tea and a couple of toasts. Eat something, Sherlock," John said, putting the tray down on the coffee table. "Any good cases?" he asked, massaging his shoulder slightly through the fabric of his jumper.

"Your phone rang," Sherlock said, spinning his Blackberry in his hands.

"It did? Where is it?"

"Kitchen," Sherlock said.

John nodded and walked out again. Sherlock finally pressed _read_ on his mobile.

**Soon, my dear. Very soon. xxx**

He scowled at the words. That didn't make sense at all. He tossed the phone to the side again, ignoring the nonsense and turned around, burying his face in the cushions, once more.

"John!" he called, his words muffled. "John! Come back! I'm cold!" he whined. What was taking him so long? "John!" he called again, lifting his head.

Why wasn't he responding? The sound of something breaking in the kitchen made Sherlock scowl.

"I hope, for your sake, that that wasn't my petri dish with the camel's stomach fluids," he shouted.

No answer. He couldn't even hear John breathing.

"Can I have you back, now?"

Silence again.

"Oh, for goodness sake," he grumbled, getting up and pulling the robe around him, tying the straps lazily before going to get the other man.

He walked to the kitchen to find a very still, very non-breathing John Watson. His cup shattered all over the floor as his hand held his mobile. Sherlock frowned and searched John's face. He was pale as snow and his eyes steady, fixing on whatever was on the other side of the kitchen window. Their eyes met. Sherlock saw only the panic and pain in that dark silver tone and froze.

"John?" he called softly.

"Don't," John whispered. "Don't come near me, Sherlock."

"John… What's wrong?"

He didn't answer.

"Say something!" Sherlock almost shouted.

And then he saw it, the bright red dot dancing tauntingly around John's chest, too close to his heart. All the heat in Sherlock's body rushed out.

"Oh God," he whispered. "John, don't move. You can't move."

"No shit, Sherlock," John murmured, his voice surprisingly steady.

Sherlock's phone dinged again and his head turned back abruptly. He wanted to go get it, but wouldn't risk leaving John alone with a bloody sniper targeting his heart. Their eyes met again and John nodded. Sherlock quickly turned around, went to the sitting room and picked up the phone.

**Did you miss me? I sure missed you. xxx**

Blocked number, of course. How could he have missed it before? He walked back to the kitchen and this time John's eyes were closed, his hand still clasping around his phone. Two red dots were now flashing around John's chest.

"He's got Harry, Sherlock," John breathed, his voice trembling slightly.

Another chime. Sherlock didn't want to read it.

**Let's play a game, shall we? I'll spare you your new toy, if you can figure out how I killed Harriet Watson. The rules are simple: from the moment your eyes lay on the photograph on Johnny's mobile, you'll have 10 of his breaths to crack it. If you bend, break or twist the rules, you can say goodbye to your little pet. Let's hope Johnny boy has good lungs. xxx**

Sherlock's eyes widened. What was he supposed to do? He looked at John and saw the transparent pearl roll down his cheek. His soldier was breaking.

"John. I need to get to your phone," Sherlock said. "When I look at it, I need you to hold your breath for as long as you can, do you understand me?"

"No, Sherlock. They'll kill you, don't come near me," John mumbled.

_Oh, my silly John,_ Sherlock thought. _This is not the time to be brave._ "I'm afraid I might be too late for Harry, but I will not lose you. Just do as I say!"

John reluctantly nodded, his eyes still firmly shut. Sherlock got closer to him and curled his hand around John's. He heard John exhale, preparing to breathe in as much air as he could when the phone left his hand. Sherlock knew it would be painful to him, considering how John still complained of chest pains due to his 'blood clot' lung. But if there was anyone who could forget pain and focus in a matter of life or death, that someone was undoubtedly John Watson.

Sherlock grasped the phone as John took the first deep breath. He looked at the photo, and panicked. The picture only showed blood splatter on a white wall. What was he supposed to do with _that_?

John was becoming bluer and bluer and he tried to exhale slowly, buying Sherlock some time. His chest was burning, his eyes foggy with tears, his heart hurt with the thought of having lost Harry – the only family he had left. His lungs started to crave oxygen and his head was starting to feel too light.

"Sherlock," he called, trying to use the minimum air possible.

"Nine left," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "Don't waste air on talking. Breathe in again," he said as he made his way to the sitting room and grabbed John's laptop. "Come on, come on, come on!"

He heard John's sharp intake again. _Eight. Come on John. Hold on._ His fingers typed away as quickly as he could.

"Come on! Blood splatter patterns! What kind of weapon could make such print?" he roared.

John was struggling more and more with his lungs. The air left again and he breathed in once more_. Please God, let him live,_ John prayed, capturing Sherlock's shape with his peripheral vision. _Just let him live._ He closed his eyes, trying hard to forget the day at the pool. The red dot dancing in Sherlock's forehead, the way he looked so damn lost, the look in his eyes when John offered himself to die for him.

"Sherlock," he called again, his chest clenching with the lack of air.

"Six," Sherlock murmured desperately. He was as close to find out the puzzle now as he was four breaths ago. He had to risk it. "John. Try to breathe in slow and shallow. Try not to make him notice you're breathing."

John nodded and released the air, slowly and carefully so his chest wouldn't move the slightest, then he breathed in again.

A sharp noise broke into the kitchen. The sound of glass breaking and a shout of pain filled the room, followed by three heavy breaths. Sherlock's head snapped up and he saw the good doctor holding onto his left arm, his hand curling around the bloody surface where the bullet hit, trying to stop the bleeding. John's eyes were closed shut, his face twisting in pain. Sherlock's phone rang.

**I warned you. Next time, they won't miss. He has two breaths left. Use them well. xxx**

"Sherlock, this is useless," John said quietly.

"Don't talk!" Sherlock thundered. "Don't waste your air!"

He looked back down at the images on the laptop and fished the message on his mobile. _'If you can figure out how I killed Harriet Watson…'_ something about that sentence was extremely wrong. But what was it?

John breathed in again. His last breath. Sherlock wasn't going to give up. Not now. He was not going to give up on John, just like John would never give up on him. He was going to solve it, no matter at what cost, _his_ John was NOT going to die. Not today. Not this way.

**'How I killed Harriet Watson'**

He looked at the screen and then at John, and then at the screen again_. If you fail him, Sherlock… I will never forgive you,_ he thought to himself.

**'How I killed Harri—'**

"Oh!" Sherlock huffed clasping his hands together. "Oh, I've got it! John, hold on just a bit longer. I've got it!" his fingers hasty as he posted the answer on his website.

"Hurry," John murmured. "I can't…"

John's blood loss was making him dizzy, adding the lack of air in his lungs, it was almost like a sick form of torture. His body was heavy and his legs were starting to fail.

Sherlock closed the lid of the laptop and held his breath, looking intently at John's chest, hoping to be right. The laser lights were still there, spinning joyfully, scornfully around the area of John's heart.

"Come on you bastard," Sherlock growled under his breath. "Back off."

Two seconds later the ding sounded again.

**Guess who's lucky? It appears that dear ol' Johnny boy gets to live another day… Unfortunately. I can't wait for our next time. xxx**

Sherlock tossed the mobile onto the table and ran to John, just in time to catch him before he collapsed on the floor.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, putting pressure on the wound on John's arm.

"Sherlock, Harry…" John panted, trying to catch his breath, to keep the oxygen running through his body. Everything was hurting him. "My sister…"

"She's alive, she's okay, John. But you are not. We need to get you to a hospital."

"How?"

"In a cab!"

"No, Sherlock. How is she alright? You saw the picture!"

"Let me take you to a hospital first. I'll explain the details later," Sherlock said, as he tried to pull John up to his feet.

"No hospitals, I just want bed. Just. Bed."

"But you're hurt!"

"If you don't take me to bed right now, I promise you'll be the one needing medical care!" John roared.

Sherlock wrapped a hand around his waist and slowly helped him cross the way to his bedroom – it was the closest to the kitchen.

"Stubborn little man," Sherlock huffed impatiently

"Shut up, Eiffel Tower."

Sherlock laid John down in bed, piling up the pillows to make him comfortable. Then he sat down by his side and helped him strip off his jumper so he could take a look at his wound. He bit his lip and scowled at it.

"I loved that jumper," he whined, glancing at the beige knitted fabric.

"I know," John said. He brought his good hand up and stroked Sherlock's curls. "I am so sorry they shot me while I was wearing it," he said softly.

Sherlock could almost hear the gears turning inside John's head. Questions waiting to be answered. He got up, went to the bathroom in a hurry and fetched the first aid kit. Then he returned and once again, took his seat beside John.

"What do I do?" he asked, his hands were shaking slightly. "Talk me through it."

"It's just a scratch, Sherlock. Please, tell me about Harry. What the hell was that all about? How is she okay?" John asked, his eyes searching furiously for answers in Sherlock's eyes. "Grey again," he murmured. "They were blue when we were in the couch, now they're grey. What are you hiding from me?"

Sherlock poured some funny coloured liquid on a piece of gauze and pressed it against the deep cut of John's upper arm. John didn't even flinch; he just kept looking intently at Sherlock, waiting for him to give him answers.

"Say something, God damn it!" he snapped.

"Your sister is alive. That's all you need to focus on right now. Let me worry about the rest."

"Stop," John said, closing his eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"No, just, stop talking," John opened his eyes again. "Why do you do this to me, Sherlock? Why do you keep pushing me away? Bloody hell I almost died there, all I want is an explanation. I thought my sister was dead, and now you tell me she's not. What is going on? Why do you keep hiding stuff from me?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes, unable to look at John's face.

"This is exactly like what you did with the motel explosion. You hid it from me. I could've lost you that day, Sherlock. What if I did? How could I ever make him pay? How would I deal with the idea of not having you around?" John's words were calm, but each carried more hurt than Sherlock had ever heard in John's voice.

"I said this before, but I'll say it again, because apparently you are too obtuse to understand such a simple concept. I am in this with you, Sherlock. You are not alone! For Christ's sake, if you were meant to be doing this all by yourself, then what was the point of me? Why would I even bother?"

John paused and bowed his head, looking at his hands. "I need you to trust me."

Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. "John… I do trust you! I trust you with my life!" he said. "After all we've been through, I thought you already understood that."

"Don't try to sound hurt, Sherlock. If you trust me with your life, why do you keep me in the dark when things like this happen?"

"I don't want to lose you, John," Sherlock said, still not meeting John's eyes. "You keep me safe, not only from the obvious risks that threaten our lives on a daily basis, but you also keep me safe from myself."

Sherlock kept on cleansing John's wound as he spoke, his hands gently handling John's arm.

"When you asked me what I wanted, I couldn't think of anything, because my head was full with the things I _don't_ want from you," Sherlock took a deep breath and finally gathered the courage.

"I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to disappear. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to wake up and see you're not there. I don't want to push you away. I don't want you to be with anyone else. I don't want to see you with a woman. I don't want you to run away from me so you can get married and have a dull, mundane and, God forbid, _normal_ life with a house in the countryside and three kids and a dog and a garden with those scary elves waving at you…"

"Gnomes," John corrected, a small smile drawing on his lips.

"Yes, that," Sherlock smiled back. "I— I want to have you for my own. And if anything happens to you— John you know me fairly well. I would risk saying that you know me better than anyone. But I don't know how things like this work. There's nothing useful on the internet to help me with my research. It's so hard to keep up with all this… _humanity_ and these _feelings_."

"I'm scared John. You are my strength just as much as you are my weakness. And Moriarty knows that, the bastard. He knows about us— about our… new situation. And he will do everything to destroy me… _us_. Why do you think he waited all this time?" Sherlock wrapped the gauze around John's arm, careful not to harm him any further. "That night in the pool. You remember what he said. He saw right through us even before we knew it ourselves."

"I'll burn the heart out of you," John murmured, recalling the psychopath's words. "That still makes my heart race in a scary way. So you think he has been waiting for us to develop this… _thing_, we have so he could—"

"Enjoy it. What's so fun about torturing someone without feelings?" Sherlock asked coldly. "I have to find him, John. I have to find him and kill him before he hurts you."

"There. You're doing it again," John said, shaking his head.

"What?"

"Talking like you have to do it alone."

"John I won't—"

"No, you won't do it alone because I bloody well will be there with you. And the only way you can stop me is if you say you don't want me to be around you anymore, which, considering the frankly disquieting amount of fluffiness you just vomited all over my ego, I 'm willing to believe it's not going to happen anytime soon," John said resting his head on the pillows.

"Now here's the plan; you tell me about Harry, we eat something, you lay down by my side, we have some rest and tomorrow we start working on finding the son of a bitch. How does that sound to you?"

Sherlock closed the first aid kit and nodded at John, brushing his long fingers through the golden strands of his hair. Then he walked out of the room, leaving John alone for a couple of minutes.

_What is wrong with him?_ John questioned himself, closing his eyes. _I didn't have the slightest idea about all of that! It's so not like him to be so direct about his feelings._ Despite everything, he allowed his lips to stretch in a smile. _Is this it? Should I tell him? No… it would only make things more complicated to him. I'll wait until he's ready to say it. If he's ever going to say it. John, don't deceive yourself. He slipped up now, doesn't mean he reciprocates your feelings._

"Stop thinking John, you're giving me a headache."

"I smell apricot jam and fresh made coffee. Well done, Nigella Lawson," John murmured opening one of his eyes to confirm the contents of the tray.

"Open," Sherlock said leading a generously jam-coated toast to John's mouth.

"Sherlock, I can eat by myself," he complained.

"Your dominant arm is injured, you can't move it, and I don't want jam all over my sheets, so please open."

John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth. He waited for the toast to touch his lips so he could bite it, but instead of apricot, he savoured the familiar taste of Sherlock's lips, gently brushing against his own. Then the contact was over and replaced by the warm toast. John opened his eyes as he chewed, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock, inquiringly.

Sherlock shrugged. "About your sister," he started, slowly as he led the toast to John's lips again. "Moriarty said in his text that I had to find the way how he had killed her. The stipulated time was—"

"Ten of my breaths, yes, go on…"

"How do you know?"

"It doesn't take a consulting detective to guess that, when each time I breathed in you panicked at the countdown," John said, eyeing the cup in Sherlock's hands. "Is that a straw?"

"Shut up and drink," the man groaned. "Well, you saw the picture. How was I ever supposed to guess anything just by the blood splatter pattern? I could only know if it was made by a gun or a knife, but you know how meticulous he is. That would never be enough of an answer for him. But, he wouldn't arm a trap; he wouldn't give me a puzzle without a solution."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he wants me to keep playing his games. He may be a psychopath, but at least he has fair play," Sherlock stated. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," John said, taking a sip from his straw. "You know this is quite humiliating, right? I am perfectly capable of eating by—"

"Hush, John," Sherlock said softly. "Let me take care of you, please."

"What the hell," John shrugged. "So you were saying that Moriarty wanted you to deduce something based on the impossible."

"No. It was very possible for me to deduce the murder weapon, but not with the amount of time he gave me. I have to say that you did remarkably well with holding your breath. Until you got shot, at least."

"Yes, Sherlock. Once again, I apologise for reacting when a bullet pierced through my arm. It was wrong of me, but it really hurt a bit. Maybe it should've pierced my chest! Then you wouldn't have to worry about how many breaths I had left!" John said bitterly looking away from his flatmate.

Sherlock stiffened. "John, don't you ever say that again!" he muttered, looking wide-eyed at John.

John locked their eyes and he realised just how cruel his words had been. Sherlock's eyes were swimming with fear and something that resembled pain. His face softened.

"Sorry, I am sorry," he said running his right hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "It's just… sometimes the way you talk; it drives me insane. But I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to hurt you. Now give me another bite of deliciousness and keep telling me the thing," John said, brushing his knuckles on Sherlock's cheekbones.

The detective seemed to have frozen. His lips were slightly parted as if he was going to say something, but no sound was coming out. John tipped his head to a side.

"Oy! Toast, now! You're quite a rubbish nurse aren't you, Mr Holmes?" John said playfully.

Sherlock blinked and moved his mouth, but there was no sound. It was like watching a film in mute.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"What did… uh… you called me—" Sherlock gulped and tried again. "What did you call me?"

"I don't know. Right now I'm thinking of calling you lots of new stuff, but I doubt you would like any of that," John said. "Can you please go on with your story?"

"No. You called… you… John…"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock. Is this about the Nigella Lawson thing? Look I like the lady! She cooks wonderfully, I _love_ her recipes! It was a compliment!"

"Yes! That! You called me that!"

"What's wrong about her?"

"No, not her. The other thing you said there!"

"WHAT OTHER THING! Can you please just finish the story of how you realised that Harry is alive?" John yelled at him.

"LOVE!" Sherlock shouted back.

"What?"

"You called me… love."

"No I did not."

"John, please. It's _me_ you are talking to. I don't mishear things. Much less things like that!"

"Says the man who thought I had a son when I told him I had a Sun."

"The words are pronounced the same way. It was an understandable mistake."

"Can we please get back on the previous issue?"

"No."

"What if I promise to talk about this, although there's nothing to talk about here, after you finish?"

Sherlock gave him a thoughtful look, and then he shrugged. "So, after searching for blood splatter patterns, I could only deduce it had been done with a very sharp blade. So then something rang in my head, and for some reason I felt like the answer wasn't in the photograph, but in the message he had sent me with the rules of the game."

"He had said: _'If you can figure out how I killed Harriet Watson…'_ and it was odd how that sentence didn't seem to fit. Once again I remembered the night at the pool. He said that someone else was holding the rifle because he didn't like to get his hands dirty. The key word was the _'I'_. Harry is not dead, because he's a smug bastard who doesn't like to do the nasty work. He's getting very imaginative. He wants to taunt you so he can get to me. Brilliant, I must say."

"Why did you call me love?"

John jolted off the bed and walked towards the door, quickening his step.

"Where are you going? Lay back down!" Sherlock thundered after him.

"I need to go to Harry's. I need to be sure she's alright… at least as far as alright goes with her. I need to know she's safely at home, pissed or hangover or both."

Sherlock followed him as he crossed the living room. "You can't! That's exactly what he wants! If you contact her, you'll be putting both of you in the line of fire! Don't you see?"

"So what, Sherlock? What do I do?" John stopped walking abruptly causing Sherlock to hit him. "She's the only family I've got left! Well, the only _biological_ family, anyway. I and Harriet might not get along much, but she's my sister, Sherlock. Just because you don't give two fucks about your siblings, doesn't mean I have to do the same!"

Sherlock shook his head and turned John to him. He carefully wrapped his arms around the athletic torso of the shorter man and pulled him in an awkward embrace.

"John," he started as he noticed the wetness of John's tears on his t-shirt. John's right arm curled around his waist and he smiled. "John, she will be safe as long as we keep away from her."

John nodded against Sherlock's chest. "I hope you're right."

"What did you mean by 'biological' family, anyway?" Sherlock asked pulling away from him and looking down.

"Surely you don't need me to explain that to you," John said, wiping the sneaky tear away from his cheek. "What do I do now, Sherlock?"

"According to your plan, this is the part when we both go to bed and… get naked," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"I'm fairly sure I didn't say that. I mean, after all I just got shot," John scowled.

"No. I can remember it clearly; you said that there was far too many clothing between us."

John rolled his eyes. "Really? What else did I say?"

"That you would be very pleased if I took care of you, just like you've been taking care of me," Sherlock said, running his fingertips along the length of John's broad shoulders. "And then you said you were hungry," Sherlock lowered his face so his lips were brushing against John's ear. "Let me feed you, John."

"I've corrupted an innocent soul."

"I'm far from being innocent," Sherlock protested, holding John's wrist and pulling him towards his room.

"And each step you take is only getting you further."

"How poetic," Sherlock said, closing the door to his room. "Lay down. I'll spare you for now. But tomorrow morning, you won't get rid of me with the same ease."

"I hope not," John stated, grinning, as he returned to his place between the fluffy pillows.

Sherlock stripped his robe and t-shirt, and pulled the soft bedding down. John watched as he eased himself inside the duvet, pulling them back up so it would cover them both. Sherlock sheepishly moved in bed until he was only a few inches away from John.

"You realise neither of us is going to be able to sleep, don't you?" Sherlock inquired, looking at his doctor.

John smiled and laid his head on Sherlock's chest. Their skin warming one another as he tried very hard not to concentrate on the slicing pain on his arm, or the warmth of Sherlock underneath his face, or the other man's scent invading his nose, or the threat that Moriarty had put upon them both.

He felt suddenly tired. Closing his eyes, he pressed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's soft, pale skin.

"We don't have to sleep to be able to rest, Sherlock," he muttered. "We will find him. No matter what cost, I know we will find him. And then we can have peace."

Sherlock led a hand to John's head and unconsciously started to stroke his flaxen hair. "John... I—" he stopped his words abruptly, frowning at the absurdness of what almost came from his lips. He sighed. "I hope you're right."

* * *

><p>AN: Aloha Everyone Sorry for the delay... but real life's a bitch! Once again a big huge thank you to my precious Beta Chel ... because I love her and HELL I HAVE NO BLOODY REGRETS AT ALL!

I would love to stay here and babble for hours.. but Sherlock is on in less then 10 minutes and... as you see... I have better things to do.

Thank you all for the faves and reviews and so on... Love you all... blah blah blah...

Seriously don't stop reviewing, tho. I need it to keep going with this, or else... I'll Reichenbach Sherlock and he will not be coming back *evil laugh*

OFF TO HOUNDS OF BASKERVILLE!

*Bloo*

P.S. _Shivanni_, you're a bitch. This is your fucking Christmas present. Where are your fucking REVIEWS? I want you to die, okay?


	10. Not enough

**Chapter 10 – Not Enough**

"So is that it?" John asked with a frown. "That's not much, is it?"

Lestrade shrugged and cocked his head to the side. "It's all I could gather. Let's hope Sherlock has better luck with his brother. I'm really sorry," he said taking another sip from his pint.

John noticed the slight pink tone in Lestrade's cheeks when mentioning Mycroft, but he politely didn't pick him about it. As far as he knew, Gregory Lestrade was a happily married man for several years now. Maybe the sudden blushing was due to the humiliation of being kidnapped by the elder Holmes. God knew how Mycroft could seem intimidating at times.

"That's alright," John said with a sigh. "I'm sorry to be so insistent, but this was the first good clue we got. We couldn't just let it slip away, could we?"

"Believe me, John, I want to see that creature behind bars just as much as you do," Lestrade stated, looking dully out of the window.

_Well, I would rather see him dead,_ John thought to himself. "How's… I'm sorry. I don't even know her name…" John hesitated. Well, since they were already there, he might as well make some sort of small talk.

"Olivia," Lestrade clarified. "She's… fine, I guess."

John was aware that something was wrong. "Greg," he started, "You know that if you need to talk, well, although we don't know each other that well, you can come to me, right?" he could see in the DI's eyes that he was dying to get something off of his chest.

John really liked him, he was an honest man who worked hard and had a fairly impressive tolerance towards Sherlock. He could somehow see himself in Lestrade's own countenance.

Lestrade turned his eyes away from the busy street outside the window and buried it in the amber coloured liquid in his pint. John watched carefully as he hesitated, wondering if he should speak or not. He was about to make a comment about the weather or something just to break the uncomfortable silence when Lestrade decided to start talking.

"She's leaving me," he said quietly.

John pursed his lips, and shifted in his seat. "I'm sorry, Greg. I really am," he said.

"No, it's alright," he said with a shrug. "She's right. I did value my job far more than I valued her," he said. "It's funny, though."

"What is?"

"Well, for several years, I've heard that we made a perfect couple, that we were meant for each other… cheesy stuff like that," he lifted his eyes and locked his gaze with John's. "For the past several months, every time I've heard those words I'd chuckle and think; 'Clearly you haven't met Holmes and Watson'. And now… there you go," he paused and gestured vaguely at the doctor.

John scowled. "Look, Sherlock and I… we can be many things… but we are definitely _not a couple._ Come on, you know him. He's not 'relationship' material. He's _Sherlock_ for God's sake."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow. "Exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"You were the only one who ever got _that_ close to Sherlock, John. I'm still not sure what to expect from your… partnership, but he's changed," he hesitated, "a bit," he added with a smirk. "And I really, thoroughly think that you're turning him into a good man."

"It's not that simple. Sherlock gets bored easily," he took a sip from his pint and put the glass down again. "We've been working on this new lead for what, one week, now? Tomorrow is his birthday. And we're going to spend it in silence while Sherlock murders the violin and shoots the wall," he recoiled at his last words. He should not have said that. As far as he knew, Lestrade didn't know John had a gun. "Anyway, what I mean is that for the past few days he hasn't even glanced at me, so wild are those thoughts, partying in his brilliant brain."

"You cracked the ice, though," Lestrade said smiling widely. "And I know it's none of my business, but it's splattered all over your eyes that you love the man," he dared to say. "Frankly, the only one who doesn't know your feelings for Sherlock is… well, _Sherlock._ I mean, come on! You're not fooling anyone. And it's not like you put a lot of effort in hiding it."

John hid his face behind the glass as he poured the content down his throat in one shot. Then he waved at the waitress and asked for one more.

"He's been consuming, Greg," John said after a while.

"Come again?"

"Cocaine," John clarified, his eyes not quite meeting the DI's. "He doesn't know I know, though."

"I thought he was keeping clean. It was part of our bargain," Lestrade murmured. "He was holding on so well."

"What bargain?"

"A few years ago, I was stuck in a particularly difficult case. I had just been promoted to my actual position and had no bloody idea of what I was doing. The case involved a series of murders and a very well known drug smuggling organisation. They called themselves the Black Dahlia organisation."

The waitress came and deposited another full pint in front of John. "Thank you," he muttered before turning his attention back to Lestrade. He's always had this tiny itchy curiosity to know how the two of them had met.

"I think I've heard about the Black Dahlia before. It was about five or six years ago, right?"

Lestrade nodded. "Still to this day I don't know why my chief gave me that case, I was clearly the most inexperienced DI in the Yard, I had only been on the job for three weeks! I think it was just meant to be. Destiny wanted me to meet Sherlock," he laughed. "If one believes in such a thing."

"One never knows."

"One never does," he agreed. "At the time, we'd had a lead, a very important and quite scandalous lead. We heard that one of the members of the government had a family member that was partially involved with the Black Dahlia. Of course, as you can imagine, that just served to spike the investigation up a few knots. We had to work hard and fast."

"That member of the government… can it be… by any chance…"

"It can. And it was. Although we never knew the kinship between that member of the government and the poor sod who had fallen in to the smuggler's hands."

"After months searching, we finally found him. Just a twenty-seven year old man, lost and brilliant. The first time I laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes, John, he looked like a rough, rusty, uninteresting piece of junk, but those eyes… I will never forget the lost look in those piercing grey eyes."

John closed his eyes momentarily, trying not to picture the image of Sherlock under the heavy influence of the drug.

"I was ready to beat the shit out of him until we got some answers," Lestrade recoiled slightly. "I'm not that proud of myself. I was desperate by then, all that time, and Sherlock was the closest we had gotten to catching the big fish. I didn't know what to expect from him, but I was surely not prepared for what came next."

John felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. He excused himself for a moment and pressed read.

_I hate Mycroft. Can I sever his head and experiment on it?  
><em>–_SH_

And a second later.

_Never mind that. I don't want him contaminating our appliances. I'll be home in 30 minutes. Hope to find you there. No clothes allowed.  
><em>–_SH_

John giggled softly and shook his head before typing a quick reply.

_Still with Lestrade. Meet you back at Baker St. Oh, and it's your turn to get the milk. I'll even let you buy that whipped cream. I'm feeling creative today.  
><em>– _John_

He slid the phone back to his pocket and took another sip. "I'm sorry about that. So, what happened next? How did you hold yourself back enough not to punch him in the face?"

"With all my self control," Lestrade laughed again. "You know Sherlock. What were the first words he said to you?"

John thought back. He didn't have to think much, though. He could recall that meeting at Bart's with the same clarity as if it had happened yesterday. "_Thank you_," he said with a smirk. "He was quite polite. I lent him my mobile," then his smile grew wider. "And after that he asked me _'Afghanistan or Iraq?'_" he paused. "I think I know where you're getting at."

"Exactly. Just as soon as he sat his lost, smug butt in the inquiry room chair, he started vomiting my life with the precision of a crack shot."

John cringed at Lestrade's choice of words. His recently wounded arm seemed to protest too, twitching in pain. Once more, he hid his reaction behind the half-empty pint. "What did he get wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"He says that there's always something that he misses. For instance, he thought Harry was my brother," he put the glass down again, turning it between his palms. "She's my sister."

"Oh! He called me Lieutenant, but he quickly rectified it and eventually he got my title right."

"Eventually, you say?"

"Yes, he called me Lieutenant, then Sergeant and then Detective Inspector. I didn't correct him in any of the times, nor did I confirm when he got it right. As you might suspect, I was a bit too overwhelmed by all the things he had said about my personal life in the three minutes we had been alone in that room," Lestrade took a deep breath before resuming the story.

"He didn't fight my attempts of getting the information we needed, or at least, that we _thought_ we needed. Not only did he talk, but he also offered his help on the investigation. When I asked him why was he helping us, he just shrugged and said he was tired of his life, and—" his voice broke.

John sat back and narrowed his eyes. "And…?"

"And that he would like to do at least one good thing before it ended," Lestrade concluded. He looked down and started playing with his wedding ring_. "What's the point of being brilliant if I can't use my brain? I prefer to die then to let it rot inside my skull. Everything is so grey Detective Inspector. The world is so lifeless. What's the point?"_ Lestrade quoted, his voice was barely above a whisper.

John felt his insides twinge. The thought of seeing Sherlock that desperate… he didn't even want to imagine it.

"In the end he ended up helping more than we could ever expect. A month later we had captured more than half of the Black Dahlia members, including the big bad shark."

"Oh he was brilliant, alright, and that brilliance we observed was under the influence of cocaine. I knew I could help him. I knew I could do something to save him from sinking completely," Lestrade said, a smile crawling back to his lips. "So I made a deal with him. If he stayed clean, I would bring cases for him to solve."

"Six years later, I think I could barely move a straw without asking for Sherlock's opinion on the matter first—" he frowned. "Don't tell him that, though. We don't want him go grow a big head, now, do we?"

"God, no. He would be even more insufferable," John joked.

Both of them laughed and finished their drinks. They sat in silence for a while, John letting Lestrade's words sink in as the other man, still playing with his wedding ring, thought about that first meeting with the world's only consulting detective.

"John," Lestrade said, breaking the silence. "If there is anyone who can keep him from falling in the same web, that someone is you. Take care of him, John. You've saved him from himself many times before. Hell, you've been saving his life since the very first night you met," Lestrade gave him a knowing smile.

John froze for an instant, trying to keep his face as blank as possible. "Wha— What are you talking about?"

"Don't worry. It's our dirty little secret. I'm not going to tell anyone about it," he smirked. "Besides, he wasn't a nice man."

John nodded and smiled back. "No, he wasn't."

"You should get home now. I bet Sherlock must be anxious to see you," Lestrade said grabbing his wallet from the table and fishing for a pair of bills.

John rested one hand in his and shook his head. "My treat, Greg. You go home to your wife. I bet you could use a long talk with her. You should probably tell her what you told me."

Lestrade nodded and got up. John deposited a couple of bills on top of the table and followed Lestrade out of the pub. The air was slicing cold and he had to button up his coat completely before he turned into a thick block of ice.

"Need a ride home?" the DI asked pointing at a silver car just a few metres away.

"Nope, thank you. I'll walk, Baker Street is not far."

"Alright," Lestrade hesitated before wrapping the smaller man in a quick hug, "Thank you John. You're a good friend," he said before making way to his car.

John waved as Lestrade passed by him, disappearing around the corner after a short while.

He made his way down the footpath, slowly. He let Lestrade's words fill in his mind as he walked. The thought of Sherlock desperate to the point of wanting to end own life was painful. He had more to thank Lestrade for than he would ever imagine.

But now, Sherlock was falling again, and John tried to hold him, but he was feeling like he was holding on to air. He just hoped his friendship would be enough for Sherlock to quit.

Lestrade was right. He was bloody right about John's feelings for Sherlock. But John knew better than to feed his hopes. _Too late for that, though. You started feeding them the very day you decided to kiss him. And then you fed it some more by having sex with him. Don't you think it's a little too late to worry about not getting involved?_ The voice in his thoughts was harsh and taunting.

A cool breeze brushed through him, almost slicing his skin with the sharp cold. He turned up the collar of his coat in an attempt to protect his neck and buried his hands deep in his pockets and quickened his stride a bit.

He couldn't help but feel like he was being followed, or maybe just observed. What actually did make some sense, since Mycroft was in fact, known for his efficiency on spying on people. And it was more than natural that he would keep a tight surveillance on John and Sherlock, at least while Moriarty wasn't caught.

He was clearly becoming paranoid. He just wanted to get home and slouch himself in the first comfy piece of furniture available. The sofa would most probably be occupied the big lump of Sherlock, so he had to content himself with one of the armchairs. Or maybe he would just freefall on top of Sherlock and hear him protest in that childish way of his.

The familiar buildings of Baker Street started to make their appearance and John smiled inwardly. He still had that uncomfortable sensation in his gut, but he decided to ignore it. It was probably all that pressure about Moriarty and the constant risk of threat towards Sherlock's life.

He reached his pocket to grab the house keys, but instead his hand bumped against the cigarette pack he had kept there, untouched, since the day in the warehouse. John sighed, a cloud of steam coming out with his warm breath. He twirled the pack around inside his pocket, Lestrade's words still swimming in his head.

"Screw it," he murmured as he slid one cigarette from inside the pack and put it between his lips, flickering his Zippo to light the fag.

He took one deep breath and sat on the step by the door, running a hand through his flaxen hair.

A cab stopped in front of 221b, the unmistakable lean figure of one Sherlock Holmes, gracefully getting out and turning around to hand a bill to the driver_. There's something you don't get to see every day,_ John thought to himself, liberating the smoke from his lungs. _Sherlock paying his own fee? I should've taken a picture of that._

Sherlock came to a halt at the sight of the doctor. He scowled and tipped his head to a side. Then he closed the space between them in three long strides and sat beside him. John moved closer, thanking for the new source of heat.

Sherlock leant his head against the door and grabbed John's fag. Then he closed his eyes, taking a long, deep drag.

John watched as those long fingers led the cigarette to his Cupid's bow lips. The way he sucked in the smoke seemed almost obscene. _Why is everything about this man so sinfully attractive? He could be dressed as a burger and dancing the Macarena, and he would still look like a fucking God!_ John smiled at the image before being distracted with the way the smoke was leaving that immoral mouth of his. He felt suddenly aroused, but was not surprised by it. _What the hell does he see in me?_

John snatched his cigarette back. "What happened to the nicotine patches?" he asked.

"What happened to the good, healthy doctor?"

"Do you know when you get annoyed with me because I answer with questions?

"What about it?"

"It works both ways," John grumbled.

Sherlock snorted. "I apologise, then," he said, opening his eyes and looking at John. "You do know that cigarettes are harmful to your health, don't you, doctor?"

John frowned. "Cocaine is too, and you don't hear me complaining," he said bitterly. He only noticed his words after they were already out. And once they're out… they're out.

John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him. He should've kept quiet about it. _Stupid git! Stupid, stupid, stupid, Watson!_

"What the—"

"It took me a bit. I mean, I've known for a while, now. But I was refusing to believe in what I saw," John said quietly.

"For a while?"

"Do you remember the day when you pinned me against the door? When you solved the Gonzaga's case?" John asked, but he proceeded without waiting for an answer. "Your pupils were way too dilated to be a light effect, and your pulse was racing far too much to be just adrenaline. Also the fly in your trousers was undone, just like the belt, it was too loose, so you had put it on in a hurry. Femoral artery, Sherlock? Seriously?" John turned his head to face his flatmate.

"Brilliant plan. Almost perfect, I must say, if I hadn't happened to have sucked your dick the other day and noticed the marks. Then there was the day when I got to the hospital. You didn't want to meet my eyes, and whenever it happened you looked away in panic," John kept on going, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had just reclaimed his cigarette back.

"And of course, I couldn't help but notice that the sterilised syringes kept on going missing. As a doctor I like to have my stock full, we never know when we might experience an emergency. At first I thought I had forgotten to refill the stash, but then I remembered that it had been over a week since I had my last dose of antibiotics, and I knew I had everything in place right after that. And then we have your brother. You can't just ignore when Mycroft Holmes praises your lucidity."

"Finally, there's all that verbal diarrhoea you splattered all over me the day I was shot. You would never be so straightforward about what you were feeling if you were in your clear state of mind. That just confirmed what I already knew," John finished talking just as Sherlock had finished his fag.

Sherlock quickly got up and opened the door. His hands were shaking, but it was impossible for him to even think straight at the moment, let alone trying to keep his hands steady. What was that hot burning sensation building up inside him?

"Get up," he muttered to John just as soon as he was able to open the door.

John did as told, looking questioningly at the taller man, but maintaining the silence. As soon as they got inside, John felt Sherlock tackling him against the wall, pressing his lips roughly against his own.

Sherlock's hands hastily ran down John's athletic torso and he pushed him further against the flowered wallpaper of Mrs Hudson's corridor wall. One hand started working on John's coat as the other pressed the doctor's hands above his head.

"Sherl—mm"

"Shut up."

John tried to struggle against Sherlock's sudden attack, he really did! But his body wasn't obeying his commands. It was as if the cable that allowed his brain to give the orders to the rest of his body had been cut. There was only Sherlock at the moment, and there was no force on earth that was going to be able to stop that hurricane.

Sherlock disposed of John's coat and let his own slide down his shoulders and pool at their feet, momentarily letting go of the good doctor. He unceremoniously slipped his knee between John's thighs, and bent down again so he could claim John's mouth once more.

"Fuck," he roared in frustration, his hand halfway down to cup John's groin.

"What?"

"The lube is in my room," Sherlock whined.

"Can't you handle one flight of stairs?"

"I can try," his voice was steady, but his eyes were definitely telling a different story.

John took the opportunity and ducked under the cage of Sherlock's arms and put some distance between them, allowing himself a chance to regain his self-control. "Sherlock, we should talk about—"

"John, don't," Sherlock said turning his dark blue eyes to him. "Not now."

John sighed and rested his hand on his hip, as the other pressed the bridge of his nose. "Not now…" he repeated in a murmur. "When, then? Sherlock, you can't just keep avoiding these kinds of issues!" John said, keeping his voice low and steady. "Tell me why. At least tell me why."

Sherlock stayed there, watching John's face closely, trying to read him. He bent down to pick up his coat and started to climb the stairs.

"Oy! Where do you think you're going?" John called after him. "Don't you turn your back on me!"

He followed Sherlock, climbing two steps at a time. John was going to get his answers. This time, there was no way Sherlock would keep his words to himself.

The doctor burst into the living room and slammed the door behind him, looking at Sherlock with narrow eyes. The latter tossed his long coat to the back of John's chair and started pacing around the sitting room, hands inside his pockets. John leant back against the door and kept gazing at his flatmate, his lips pursed in a straight line.

And so it began - the silent battle of power. The last time it happened, it almost caused John to move out. But this time it was going to be different. The silence in the room was becoming unbearably crushing, and if not for that feeling coiling in his gut, John had arranged a silly excuse to talk again.

Sherlock suddenly turned to John, his eyes were wide and dark, running fast through John's expression once more. If _the_ _look_ was worrying, the _supreme look_ was a sign to run away and preserve his life. He had only seen that look in John's eyes once – the night in the pool. It had disturbed Sherlock more than he would ever admit and the look wasn't even directed at him.

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock finally asked, signing his defeat.

"I want you to tell me why," John said calmly.

"Why should I tell you anything? You wouldn't understand. You would judge and make a fuss and patronise me or doctor me or some insufferable thing like that. And all I want is for you to get off my case!" Sherlock roared, taking two steps forward.

"Funny how little you think of me, Sherlock," John said with a humourless laugh. "You think that since I don't see things as fast and accurate as you do, that I'm as stupid as a doorknob. Honestly, you underestimate me."

Sherlock closed the gap between them, and pressed one hand on John's chest. The move was so sudden that John felt the urge to take Sherlock, pin him down against the floor, and break his neck. He was a soldier trained to respond quickly to threats, and as Sherlock's hand curled around his neck, he was considering the scene of breaking him into two more and more.

"What is it that's missing, John?" Sherlock said low and gloomily. "What else do you need? You wanted a life, I gave you one. You wanted thrill and adrenaline, and I gave you that too. You wanted sex, I gave you sex. What next? My soul?"

John's heart jolted and his pulse became quicker. Sherlock tightened his fingers on John's carotid and furrowed his eyebrow.

"No, that's not it. Is my soul not enough for you, John?

"Let go of me, Sherlock, or I swear to God that I will beat the living hell out of you," John said, his voice steady and threatening.

"Stop prying into my life. You think you're special, John? Why?" Sherlock ran his eyes up and down the doctor's frame and snorted in depreciation. "Look at you. So ordinary, so disgustingly common. What is it about you that makes you so special, eh?" he said accusingly.

John closed his eyes, trying to hide just how much Sherlock's words had hurt him. "How can you be so thick?" he whispered in a rough voice. "You are so submersed in yourself, you miss everyone else around you. Yes, I'm as common as stinging nettle. If Your Highness is feeling insulted by my presence, then I apologise. It's far from my intention to offend your paramount intellect with my miserable inferiority."

Sherlock snapped as if a bell had just rang inside his head. He roamed his eyes through John's features and noticed just how tight his grasp around the doctor's neck was. He lowered his hand, looking in panic at that silvery-blue tone in the other man's eyes.

"John I—" his words caught in his throat; guilt and fear rushing down his spine. "I think you should start packing your belongings, now."

John's head snapped up. "What? You can't be serious."

"John, please. Don't— Please just go and pack."

"Why are you being like this? What the hell Sher—"

"I want your bag downstairs in thirty minutes, John," Sherlock said with a final note. "I'll call a cab."

John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock actually throwing him out? He couldn't do that, could he? He followed him with his gaze as he moved around him and disappeared through the kitchen door. Without a word, he went upstairs, not caring about shutting the door.

Kneeling beside his bed, John searched for his travelling bag, fighting the burning sensation that was rising in his eyes_. If you dare cry, you fucking idiot, I'll shoot you in the face myself._ He quickly rushed around the room, silently screaming at himself. _What the fuck just happened? How did this get to this point? Is this even real? Is this really happening? You are such a fucking idiot, Watson! Such a bloody idiot!_

As his thoughts rushed inside his head, he threw the few pieces of clothing he owned to the inside of the bag, furiously, not even bothering with folding them in that meticulous, military way. _You had to go and mention it. You had to throw it all away. You had to give yourself a serious heartbreak. Well congratulations, John Watson, you just fucked up your chances with the man you— No. Don't even think about thinking it._

He quickly emptied his sock drawer, throwing its content carelessly into the opened bag on top of his bed. _You need a plan. You need a plan. Fuck, I need a hot boiling cuppa! Stop being such an arse! The plan is… oh hell, I don't have a plan!_He breathed in a couple of times._Okay. You can't go to Harry, because if you do, she dies. You can't go to Mike because, honestly he has more to do in his life. You could phone Sar— She would probably murder you. Maybe Lestrade? The poor sod is in trouble with his wife. A stray dog appearing at his doorstep is certainly not going to help. I should go downstairs and shout at his face that I'm not going anywhere. Who the hell does he take me for?_

He stood still, a pair of socks in each hand and a scowl on his face. Why did he have to leave? He's done nothing wrong! John rolled his eyes and muttered a 'fuck it' under his breath before he started unpacking.

Although he hadn't heard Sherlock come upstairs, he somehow felt his presence in the room.

"Fuck off," he said bitterly.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Actually I am not going to pack a fucking thing," John said, tossing his blue shirt to the bag again. He turned to his flatmate, clenching his hands into fists. "You have no fucking right to kick me out. You know what, Sherlock? Screw it!" he took a couple of steps and closed the infinite space that seemed to be between them. "You are such a wanker. Hell, you are an adult man, and it's not my job to tell you what to do. You are free to do whatever you want, and if you feel that sinking in cocaine is going to make you happy, then so be it."

He grabbed Sherlock by the collar and dragged him inside the room, just so he could close the door and push him against it with more violence than required, the momentum making Sherlock hit his head against the wooden surface.

"As your doctor, I want to kick you so hard you would fly to next week! Believe me you would need a fucking team of surgeons to take Wednesday out of your arse," he tightened the grasp around the collar of Sherlock's shirt and breathed deeply. "As your friend I am majorly disappointed. Not with you, never with you. I feel like I've failed you, and it's frustrating because I don't know where. But I won't make that mistake again."

Sherlock's eyes were suddenly dark and of a whole new colour. Not grey, nor blue, but almost violet. He looked down at his friend and opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it.

"I hate you, Sherlock Holmes. I hate you so much! I hate that you're perfect. I hate that you are so fucking smart. I hate your fucking everything! And that's why I want you so. God help me I hate that I need you the way I do," he pressed his body against the taller man's and lowered his voice. "So no. I will not pack my things. I will not move out. I will not turn my back on you. And I certainly will not leave you alone to go after James Moriarty. So if you want to get rid of me, you'll have to kill me, because that's the only bloody way I'm going to leave you."

Sherlock tried to think of something to say other than "John," but that was indeed the only thing that came from his lips. His hands curled around John's waist as he bent down to kiss him. The familiarity of John's lips contrasting with the violence and need of their kiss.

John's lips started to move south and Sherlock dared a glance at the messy travelling bag on John's bed. "You have to finish packing," he managed to say in something that almost resembled a whine. "Our train leaves in less than an hour. We should be at St. Pancras already."

John stopped abruptly and looked up at Sherlock's face. His full lips were red and so deliciously swollen, his dark curls wild and messy and his eyes lazily opened, looking down to meet John's. "What the… train?"

"Yes. You didn't give me time to explain. We're going to France. AJ is going to meet us there."

John broke away and Sherlock actually whined with the lost of contact. "France? France? _France?_" John stammered as the stumbled back. "What?"

Sherlock threw a couple of clothing items to the messy sea of fabric inside John's bag and closed it. "This should be enough. If something is missing we can go shopping."

"What?" John said again, still trying to acknowledge the idea of going to _France_ with _Sherlock_. "Why are we going to— FRANCE?"

"Try to keep up. AJ is going to meet us at our family house in Carcassonne in three days. We have to stop in Paris first, I need to see someone before we proceed on our journey to the countryside," as he spoke, John's bag was being dragged downstairs. "This could be our chance, John! This could be our only chance to reach Moriarty. AJ is risking everything with this meeting."

"Carcassonne… countryside… family house… what?" John rushed downstairs to fetch his coat.

Sherlock approached him and gave him his black jacket, along with a soft stripe of red woollen fabric. "Our taxi's here," he announced as he wrapped John's neck with the red scarf. "Please, if you have nothing of importance to declare, do try to remain silent."

John nodded and gave a quick look around before following Sherlock out of the door into the cold, dark night. _Bloody hell! I'm going to France! With Sherlock! What the fuck is happening to my life?_

**…**

Sherlock remained silent during the entire trip from Baker Street to St. Pancras International Station. His mind filled with everything and nothing at the same time.

_He's not leaving me._

_He knows._

_I've disappointed him._

_No, worst than that, I've made him doubt himself._

He waited for Mycroft's voice to answer to his internal monologue and say something particularly annoying, but accurate. Yet, the voice never came.

_Are we going to catch him this time?_

_Are we going to survive it?_

A chill ran down his spine at the thought of surviving, yet losing John.

_John's life is not an option._

_Am I going to survive it? For him?_

He glanced at his… what were they? Colleagues? Flatmates? Friends? Best Friends? Yes, but more. Lovers? The thought alone made him want to laugh, and yet it was the closest word he found to define their current situation.

_Lovers… doesn't it imply love, though? The word says it clearly. I can't be John's lover nor he mine, when there's no love involved._

_Oh, isn't there? Are you sure?_

_There you are! I thought you had left me! And yes, I'm sure. There's physical attraction, but not love._

_What is love, Sherlock?_

_It's… well… It's an abstract concept, though it can be explained through several chemical reactions that are shown through your body and might be observed both physically and—_

_Yes, yes, Einstein. And E=mc2. Leave the chemistry aside, will you? What does Love mean?_

Sherlock suddenly went rigid and sat up straight. How did he not notice the change before? He decided to test it again.

_I said that love is an ensemble of chemical reactions that—_

_Oh for God's sake. Try to think human, Sherlock! What does it feel to be in love? You know the chemical reactions and so on, but how does it_feel?

Sherlock looked at John in wonderment. The words in his head, the words of his conscience, once voiced by his insufferable brother, were now voiced by the sweetest voice he knew – John's. He glanced at the man sitting beside him, his eyes lost in the moving city around them.

Sherlock's thoughts danced around the question he had asked himself in John's voice: How does it feel to be in love?

Suddenly something clicked in his mind; if he were to find out what it meant, John was the only one who could show its true meaning to him.

The cab stopped and they quickly made their way to the platform. Sherlock's long, confident stride making John half walk-half run after him, with their bags in hand. Sherlock stopped and looked around him, obviously looking for John, who was fighting the urge to punch the detective in the face.

"You could at least lay a hand, Sherlock. My arm is killing me," John said harshly as he put both their bags down. "Care to explain what's going on he—"

Sherlock looked at the doctor with an apologetic look in his face, as his hand briefly curled around John's. "I'll explain once we're moving." He let go of John's hand and searched for something in his coat's pocket. "Here's your ticket, and your wallet. Don't lose them and don't ask anything at all before the train starts moving, are we clear?"

John nodded and made a motion to pick up the bags, but this time, Sherlock was quicker. "How in the world did you get to my wallet?" he asked as Sherlock gracefully hopped on the train and went straight to the business class area.

"I'm good at pick pocketing," he said with a grin.

"Sherlock, who is paying for this trip?"

"Your Highness, the Queen," came the impatient reply. "I believe I told you to remain quiet until we were moving."

"Gee. Sorry!"

Sherlock could almost hear John shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He did intend to explain the sudden situation to him, but he needed to be sure they wouldn't be overheard.

When they were finally sitting down in their respective seats, John allowed himself a look inside the wallet Sherlock just gave him, along with the ticket. The latter observed every quirk of an eyebrow, every twitch of John's lips, every sign of distress that he was sure was to come. He watched as John closed his eyes and bit his lips to keep from talking.

John ran his eyes through the new card on his wallet, spinning it between his hands, as if seeing it from different angles would bring him some answers. Sherlock picked up his BlackBerry and typed a quick text.

_I hope you're sure about this.  
><em>–_SH_

Sherlock twirled the gadget in his hand, drumming his fingers on the table between him and John. Not two minutes later came the reply.

_We have no other option. Are you moving yet?  
><em>–_Mycroft_

Sherlock glanced at John who was now looking outside the window. He could feel the mix between adrenaline and stress irradiating from him. Hell he could've felt it from the other side of London! He was starting to write a reply to Mycroft when the train finally started moving.

_If your plan fails, I will kill you with my bare hands. We're leaving, now. I hope to see everything organised upon our arrival. We can't afford to lose time in Paris.  
><em>–_SH_

Sherlock put his mobile back in his coat, deciding to ignore whatever answer he got from his brother. He was waiting for John to start bombarding him with questions as soon as the train started to move, but he kept surprisingly quiet, obviously waiting for Sherlock to break the silence.

"It's currently five minutes past ten, which should place our arrival at the Gare du Nord at half past midnight, plus the one hour difference, which makes it half past one in the morning. We should get to Avenue de Suffren before two o'clock, if everything goes according to plan," Sherlock informed as he turned to face John.

"And what exactly is the plan?" John asked softly, looking at the darkness on the other side of the window. "We were supposed to be shagging right now. Wild, hot make-up sex. What the hell happened?"

Sherlock tried to suppress a chuckle. "I had a meeting with Mycroft today," he said.

"I know."

"Atandra's cover was exposed, John," Sherlock's voice broke. "I know what your opinion about my relationship with my siblings is, but I was very close to her as a child. Mycroft was the perfect son, I was the freak, and AJ was the rebel. We were the outcasts of the family, and we had a very tight bond, until Mother sent her away," he looked down at his hands.

John reached out and held Sherlock's hand. "Why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because I need to. I need someone to know things about me," he looked up, baring his eyes from any emotional barrier, letting John see right through him. "I need _you_ to know things about me."

The doctor nodded and squeezed his hand, encouraging him to speak. "You can trust me," he said.

"I know. It's _me_ who I don't trust."

"Don't say that, please," John started circling his thumb on Sherlock's hand, knowing that it helped him calm down. "Why did your mother send her away?"

"My family is bigger than you'd think. True, my father passed a long time ago, but still, I have AJ, and Mycroft and Mother, and a couple of nasty aunts and large amount of unendurable cousins… and a sister-in-law and a niece and nephew."

Sherlock waited for reactions but all he saw was a tender smile in John's lips. "Really? How come you never tell me any of this?"

"You never asked. And I never saw the significance of sharing certain aspects of my life. It wouldn't make any difference. I'd still be Sherlock Holmes, and you'd still be John Watson and nothing would change," Sherlock was keeping his voice low, clearly trying to control it and keep from breaking.

He decided to use this short time in France to let John inside his world. A decision that came to him out of the blue and for no reason at all, but he wanted John to be the one person who knew him like no one else, and if that meant stepping outside of his comfort zone to let him in, then so be it.

"At the age of sixteen, AJ decided to come out. She was already known as the black sheep, even more so than me, so Mother sent her away to a correction home in Scotland, hoping to somehow 'fix her'. The only one who actually tried to maintain contact with her was I, and as soon as Mother found out about our correspondence exchange, she threatened to cut my University funds."

John smiled. "As if…"

"Obviously. We kept in contact, but not with the same frequency. Sometime later I receive her letter telling me that she had met someone and as soon as she got free from that house, she was going to marry the woman, which she did, two years ago. And I believe you have met said woman in the past."

"Have I?" John asked, curiosity rising in his stomach.

"Hmm, remember my brother's first PA?"

"Anthea?"

"Who?"

"The one who kidnapped me, the night we met," John clarified with a smile.

"Oh she was calling herself Anthea that day?"

"What's her name?"

"Evangeline," Sherlock said. "Evangeline Holmes, née O'Malley."

"It could be worse…"

"What do you mean?"

John tipped his head to a side and furrowed his eyebrows in a _surely-you-can't-be-serious_ fashion. "That odd name magnet you Holmes people have. Do you even know what your names mean?" John was chuckling now. "Mycroft means 'Little Farm'. Little. Farm. Might as well name him Pavlova, God knows how much he likes a good dessert."

"I think that was Mother's second option, right after Vanilla Frosting. But unfortunately Father didn't approve at the time," Sherlock said with a laugh.

John laughed along and looked straight in Sherlock's eyes. "Then there's you."

"What about me?"

"Sherlock. In a way it's perfect, but it isn't."

"What do you mean?"

"_Sherlock_ is surrounded by a mist of mysteriousness and frankly, it suits you perfectly. But it means 'Fair Haired'. Take a good look at you! You were seriously misnamed. If anyone is _Sherlock_ in here, _I_ am Sherlock. You are… Darklock or something. God that sounds like a very cheesy villain from one of those Marvel films—"

"You're babbling, John."

"Right, sorry."

Sherlock chuckled again. He was starting to like the decision of sharing this part of his life with his silly, beautiful doctor. "Anyway, long story short, after that period, we stopped talking to each other, not because we didn't want to, but because life wasn't making things easy for us, so our communication was reduced to some sporadic cards and short letters. After that I went to Uni and everything got even harder. Then I had my very first experience with drugs, and shut my links to the world, even more if you can imagine so."

John recalled Lestrade's story and felt the sudden urge to get up and hug Sherlock, comfort him, let him know that he was no longer alone and that he would be there for him, no matter how dark the waters he was swimming in were.

As if sensing John's anxiety, Sherlock intertwined their fingers and shot him a knowing look, to which John replied with an almost-smile.

"I don't know what happened meanwhile, but as soon as I was brought back to the world, AJ was working for Mycroft as his very own top agent, his personal puppet. She was in a solid relationship with Evangeline and adopted one kid. Pascal, he's seven, now. Four years ago they decided they wanted a kid of their own and the result was Shamine."

"God."

"I know," Sherlock noticed a new kind of glow in John's eyes and knew that he was about to burst out laughing. "What?"

"Sorry love, but I just can't imagine you as an uncle! Uncle Sherlock! Oh, no, better yet, Uncle Sherly. Bloody hell it's too good!" John said between laughs. "Dear Lord! Those kids must be traumatised to have your brother as an uncle too! Uncle Pavlova and Uncle Sherly. Oh dear me. What is air?"

Sherlock didn't know if he were to be shocked with the fact that John had called him 'love' again, or angry because John had called him Sherly, or endeared to hear that honey-sweet laughter. "I'm glad my life amuses you."

"You joking? You are too good, Sherlock."

He decided on the latter. With a quick glance at his wrist watch, he decided to start talking business. "John, this is very important, so I need you to focus, yes?" he gave time to John to stop giggling and concentrate on him again.

"What is going on?" John asked after a while.

"AJ was discovered by the man who Mycroft calls 'Moriarty's first officer'."

"And who might that be?"

"Sebastian Moran. He has a history of military service, almost as remarkable as yours. Mycroft said that he was the one holding the riffle the day you got shot at Baker Street—" Sherlock broke his words and tried to count to ten not to punch his fist against the table. "He was the principal responsible for the deaths in the Warehouse."

Sherlock felt John's hand tighten around his. "What?"

"Apparently, I've led the police to his accomplice, but the man behind bars didn't do it alone. Recent activity places Moran in Paris, and that's why we're heading—"

"Oh Jesus. Fuck, fuck, fuck!" John muttered. "How could I be so motherfucking stupid?"

Sherlock widened his eyes at John's words. "Pardon?"

"That night, Sherlock! I'm so sorry! I missed it! How could I have missed it?"

"John you are not making any sense at all. Please try to concentrate."

"When I came home after we came back from the warehouse. The cabbie started to open up to me and he was very nice indeed, I asked him his name, he said he wasn't going to be able to be with his daughter, just the usual stuff," John said.

"I still fail to see where your stupidity fits in that scenario."

"When I arrived home I had this feeling that something was terribly wrong, but I thought that it was because we'd had a fight and, well, you weren't there with me. So I ignored it," John took a deep breath. "The way he talked clearly showed signs of military training. He ended almost every sentence with 'sir', which is how a soldier would address a superior. It's a rank thing, he wouldn't do it if he was in a superior rank than my own, therefore he knew my position in the Army. When we arrived I said my farewell and then he called me doctor. I didn't care at the time and I hadn't fished that thought out until you said his name."

"You said you asked the cabbie's name."

John hesitated. "Sebastian."

"You mean that it was Sebastian Moran who drove you to Baker Street?"

"Most definitely. Only someone extremely observant, like you, or very well informed, would call one a doctor without any reference whatsoever towards professional careers. I am absolutely positive I didn't say anything about being a doctor, and as someone that has been in the Army, I was used to the way he was addressing me— Oh shit."

"Oh John. Please tell me that you didn't confess anything personal during your bonding time with the cabbie."

John froze. _Well, if it serves of any consolation, I think I fell in love with a sociopath._ He felt like all the blood had just rushed out of his body. He gulped dryly.

"I might have slipped one tiny microscopic little thing that is not important at all…"

"Oh God, what did you say?"

"I can't recall," John said a tad too quickly.

Sherlock looked at him with furrowed eyebrows. "What was it?"

"I can't— I don't… Please, it was nothing."

"It was enough to make them come after us and hurt you, John! How could you be so reckless?"

"I know. I'm sorry! But hey! What were the chances of hailing yet another Psycho Cabbie of Doom?" John met Sherlock's eyes. "I fucked up badly, didn't I?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, his hand holding tight around John's as he looked outside the window. "What's done is done. All we can do now is try to catch Moran before Moriarty reaches AJ and the kids or even Harriet. He knows that our sisters are our weakness. And worse than that, he knows my greatest weakness is you and vice versa," he breathed deeply. "The smoke thickens and there are no windows in this concrete room. We have to get to the door, John, or it will be the end of us."

"Sherlock, what is this?" John asked motioning to the new card in his wallet. "It says here that I'm some sort of special agent."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John. This card gives you Government privileges, for some reason, Mycroft thinks we will need it."

"You have one too?"

Sherlock slid his hand inside his pocket and showed his own card. John just stared at it, his mouth gaping as he watched the little photograph.

"How do you manage?" John asked quietly.

"What?"

"You must be the one person in the whole motherfucking world who looks like a bloody film star in an ID card mug shot. No, seriously, how can you even live with yourself?"

"So those pints you had with Lestrade, did it, by any chance, reach pint number three?"

"Four, actually," John said.

"Yes, I thought so."

Sherlock looked outside the window once more. The night quiet and dark around them, as the train softly snaked through its tracks. He could feel the intense look John was giving him. "What?"

"We didn't even check-in. We just arrived like we owned the place and entered the train. No security checks whatsoever."

"We were expected. That little card you now own is your VIP pass. Lose it and you die."

"God, you're serious about this."

"I can't risk losing the people I—" he hesitated, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before opening them to the moving landscape once more. "I can't risk losing the people I care about."

"I thought you didn't care," John murmured.

The detective looked at him and sighed. "And I didn't. But then I met you."

Sherlock marvelled at the way the doctor's cheeks turned pink and then a brighter shade of red.

"I suppose you have a plan. If you don't then Mycroft will certainly have one."

"He's keeping Moran under tight surveillance. He will lead us to Moriarty eventually. Until then, I'm keeping you— keeping _us_ safe in Carcassonne. It's the safest place I know for a time like this."

John nodded and Sherlock noticed that their hands were still entwined. A wave of warmth rushed down his body and his pulse became a tad quicker. He glanced at John from the corner of his eye and saw the smirk on his lips. God that smirk meant trouble.

"So," John said shifting in his seat, "we have two hours to kill and we're stuck in a carriage full of nobody. Any ideas?"

Sherlock turned to face him. "About five, so far. Keep talking and maybe the numbers will turn in your favour," he said dropping his voice at least an octave.

John turned very serious. He disentangled his fingers and looked gloomily at Sherlock. "You hurt me a great deal today, Sherlock," he said, lowering the table between them.

"John. I don't know what came through—"

"It would help you a lot if you remained silent," John said as he got up and bent over the detective. "The things you said were cruel and unnecessary," he continued, bowing down over Sherlock until their noses were touching. "You said I was 'disgustingly common'."

Sherlock closed his eyes, mentally punching his face. Once again, he didn't know if he were to be cross with himself, or aroused with the way John was purring at him. He felt the doctor nibbling at his earlobe and an involuntary groan escaped his lips.

"God, John," he turned his face so he could kiss John's lips, but the doctor pulled away. "John!" he whined.

"No, Sherlock. You keep insulting my intelligence and my capacities. I think it's time for you to learn what this army doctor is made of," John brushed his tongue in his ear and sneaked a hand to Sherlock's groin, circling his thumb over his forming bulge. "Because, I can be many things, but I am not 'disgustingly common', Sherlock."

"No, John. No you aren't," he breathed, turning once more to kiss John, and again his mission was unsuccessful. "Please!"

"I said no, Sherlock. And when I say no, it's no, are we clear on that?" John squeezed the lump on Sherlock's trousers.

"Transparent! Oh Christ!" Sherlock took a sharp breath and bit his lower lip to avoid an embarrassing moan to escape.

"Christ has nothing to do with this. It's Sir, is that understood?" John said slipping his hand under Sherlock's underwear.

"Yes, John, yes!" John squeezed again in a way that was painfully delicious. "Yes, Sir!" Sherlock quickly rectified.

"That's better," John breathed as his hand stroked Sherlock's cock. "That's much better."

Sherlock whined at the arousing feeling of John's hand along with the roaming of his lips so impossibly close to his own, and yet not touching at all. "Oh hell, John. Please let me touch you."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" John's mouth was softly sucking at the curve of Sherlock's exposed neck. "Because I thought I heard someone say that they wished to touch me, but I believe that they forgot who they were talking to. Was it you, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Me. It was me, Sir. Please, Sir, let me touch you, Sir."

John took his hand back from the inside of Sherlock's trousers and straightened his posture in front of him. Sherlock looked up at John and balanced forwards, so he was kneeling on the floor, his eyes conveniently levelled with John's hips.

"What are you waiting for?" John said harshly, tangling his hand on Sherlock's ebony curls. "You wanted to touch, so touch!"

Sherlock's hands flew to John's jeans, undoing the fly and lowering the zipper with an urgency he had never experienced before. This was novel to him. He wanted to do it, he wanted to take John in his mouth and suck him until his doctor was screaming his name, but he had never done it before. Making that step in the middle of an empty train carriage while on their way to Paris, with the risk of being found at any time was just a factor that contributed for everything to be even more arousing.

As soon as Sherlock freed John's erection he started pressing kisses throughout the length of his prick. Then his tongue seemed to gain free will and started to brush up and down, wetting the big lump of flesh.

"God, that's good," he heard John murmur from above. He risked a glance at his face and almost came with the sight.

John was looking down at him, pupils blown wide as his parted lips breathed out Sherlock's name. His cheeks were flushed and his expression screamed lust and tenderness for him.

Without a second thought, he took John's cock into his mouth and started sucking gently at the head but quickly gaining his rhythm and he swallowed him further down. Their eyes met again, John's hand clenching in Sherlock's hair and his hips rocked gently in rhythm with the detective's mouth.

"Jesus… Sherlock. Yes, harder!" John whispered, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock's.

Obediently, Sherlock started sucking harder, travelling one hand up to John's arse and the other one down to grasp on his own cock.

"What do you think you're doing?" John said harshly. "I don't believe I told you to do that, did I?"

Sherlock pulled away with one hard suck and looked desperately at John. "Please, Sir. Permission to touch myself, Sir," he pleaded in that deep baritone.

"Granted," John said, pulling Sherlock's mouth to his shaft again. He lolled his head down as a cavernous moan rose from the depths of his being; an inhuman sound that just served to quicken Sherlock's moves around him. "There's my good boy."

Sherlock's hand worked frantically on his own erection, so different from the steady, deliberate pulls his lips and tongue were making on John. John's breaths started to become sharp and uneven, and Sherlock knew what was to come… _literally._

"God, Sherlock, yes. Like that. Ohhhh! Gah! Don't stop!"

Sherlock's tongue flicked around the head and he thrust again, Looking pleadingly at John. And that was it. John's hand clenched and unclenched in Sherlock's hair as he emptied himself inside that beautiful, obscene mouth of his. Sherlock swallowed up as his own orgasm rushed down his frame, making him spill on his hand and pants.

John let himself fall backwards onto the seat he once occupied, and looked at Sherlock as he tried to catch his breath. The latter looked back at him, adulation swimming in those stormy-blue eyes. He quickly pulled his pants and jeans up again and kneeled on the floor in front of Sherlock.

"You are brilliant," he said, brushing his knuckles on the detective's sharp cheekbones. "You are amazing and brilliant and beautiful."

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled, leaning against the warmth of John's touch. "My John," he whispered.

"Yes, Sherlock," John said leaning forwards and kissing his lips tenderly. "Always."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, here's the thing. Real life keeps getting in the way of me and my lovely AlfaBeta (I love you so much my precious AlfaBetaChel!) and health issues keep getting in the way of me and my Mind Palace... Writer's block is a bitch.

**Warnings:** I have never been to England... nor France...actually I've only been in Portugal, Spain and Germany... So pardon me if my London/Paris/Carcassonne references seem to be misplaced or inaccurate or whatever is is (seriously, I'm too tired to think in Portuguese... let alone English)... let's just focus on the fact that...well... this _is_ a fic after all, right? Right? BEAR WITH ME DAMMIT!

I decided to put some musical/visual refs on my profile page... but FF apparently didn't like the idea... links aren't working. LINKZ? Y U NO WORK? ME WANTZ TO GIVE TREAT TO ME READERZ!...Excuse me while I sulk in a corner, yes?

Special thanks to my dearest **Viv**...because she has the patience of an angel and helped me get through my writer's block...

And...**JAWN**? This chappy is 4 you! Becuz you luvz it...and I wantz a review!

(I should shut up naow...)

NEVER EAT YELLOW SNOW! (kudos if you get the ref)

*Bloo*

**P.S.** Review. No seriously. Review. _That's an order, Corporal!_


	11. Paris

A/N: Hi there! *Waaaaves* Sooo, I am SO sorry for the long wait. I really am. As I said, health issues are making this hard for me.

Note:This is the Un-Beta'd version (can I say that - Un-Beta'd? Well, I certainly can _now._) As soon as RL decides to be kind to me and my wonderful Beta Chel, I'll update it. In the meantime enjoy and review (because reviews really help me with it. and the more I get the more motivated I'll be, the faster I'll update, see? It's for your own good. So yes, reviews are very much appreciated.)

*Bloo*

Warning: VERY NASTY FRENCH! You have been warned.

EDIT: Beta'd version Updated. Once again a very special thanks to my beautiful Chel.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11 - Paris<strong>

_We're here. Is everything in place?_

–_SH_

Sherlock pressed _send_ and got up, taking the bags away from John's hands and giving him his BlackBerry. They were on their way out of the train when the gadget beeped.

_Émile is waiting for you._

–_Mycroft_

John read it out and smirked. "Who's Émile?" he asked.

"Our chauffeur," Sherlock said.

Indeed they were expected. A black Rolls Royce Phantom was parked just outside the station's entrance, and a tall well-tailored man was standing next to it, his hands carefully positioned behind his back. When he spotted Sherlock his smile widened.

"Okay, when you said 'our' chauffeur…"

"Yes, he's been working for our family for a long time," Sherlock said with a grin. "Do close your mouth, John. There's no need to be _that_ impressed."

"Sherlock, that's a Rolls Royce," John hissed. "A true Rolls Royce."

"How very observant of you," Sherlock groaned handing his bag to Émile.

"Bienvenu, monsieur. J'espère que vous avez fait un bon voyage," the man said with a pleasant smile.

"Oui, Émile, merci. Amenez-nous à la maison s'il vous plaît. Nous sommes assez fatigués," Sherlock answered dully. "I'm sorry, John. Émile doesn't speak English."

"Oh, don't worry," John said with a shrug, ignoring the fact that seeing Sherlock communicating in another language made his temperature rise drastically.

Émile stored their bags in the boot and came to open the doors for John and Sherlock. John went in first, still not quite believing that he was going to ride around Paris in a Rolls Royce. That's the kind of thing only millionaires got to do. And then Sherlock says that it's a 'family property'. What else? A Mansion in Milan? A palace in Portugal? An island in the South Pacific?

He noticed Sherlock was looking at him and couldn't help but feel his cheeks go warm. "Sorry," he said.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "What for?"

"I was thinking and I know how that annoys you. Plus, I must look like a bloody simpleton, but I'm just not accustomed to luxury. I think that after so many nights sleeping under the stars in a bed of straw and drinking rainwater – when it rained – I could never grow accustomed to…" he hesitated. "I'm babbling again, aren't I?"

The detective smirked. "Have you ever been in Paris?"

John shook his head. "God no. It was part of my plans, though. I never expected my trip to be so… unexpected."

"Always so talented with your words, John, you amaze me sometimes," Sherlock said with a grin. "Look," he added, pointing to something out of John's window.

John turned his head to see whatever it was, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened at the sight of the mighty Eiffel Tower. He had seen it in pictures, in films, in postcards, but he never imagined that seeing it live would make him feel so small, even though they could only spot a tiny bit of the building.

"How far are we?" he asked.

"Six kilometres, give or take."

"It's beautiful."

"Don't worry, you'll be seeing much more of it while we're here."

"Really?" John turned to face him. "Are we going to visit the Eiffel Tower?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just sat back and waited in silence.

Meanwhile John was feeling like it was Christmas morning and he was just his five year old self, rushing down the stairs, wrestling Harry to get to the presents before she did. It was like a bubbly sensation in his stomach that made him want to giggle uncontrollably. He tried to control that urge, although he knew his eyes would be as shiny as a disco ball.

"Where are we going to stay?" he suddenly asked.

"My flat."

John laughed. "Shut up, Sherlock, I'm serious. Where are we staying?"

The detective sent him a sideways look and closed his eyes.

"You can't be serious," John murmured. "You have a flat in Paris? Like… a real flat?"

"No. It's actually a dollhouse, John. I'm too big for it, but I'm sure you will fit perfectly," Sherlock roared.

"Oy!" John protested. "I may be shorter than you, but I can still kick your sorry arse if I have too."

Sherlock sighed. "At the age of eighteen, my grandparents offered us all a flat. They are the owners of the building. Mycroft, of course, got the last floor. AJ got the second."

"And you?"

"I got the sixth floor," he said, smirking.

"Can your family adopt me please? No really, I could use some parents. Or, you know, a sister who is… less drunk. I would even take in your responsibilities as an uncle!"

"You are talking far too much, today. And you're missing the view."

John grumbled something under his breath and when he looked outside the window he saw the big metal structure again, this time so close that he was sure if he reached his hand out of the window, he could touch it.

"We're here."

John hopped out of the car and looked up. It was a nice set of white buildings, with seven floors each. On the street corner, there was a little bistro that was still open. He glanced at his wristwatch. It marked ten minutes to one o'clock. Then he remembered the one-hour difference.

Sherlock was already on his way inside the building when he noticed that John wasn't following him. Letting out a heavy sigh, he put the bags down and folded his arms on his chest. He didn't call for the doctor. He just stood there and waited.

Pulling his red scarf closer to his neck, John turned around and followed Sherlock, a massive smile plastered on his lips. The younger man led the way to the elevators, giving way to John.

"You look happy," he commented.

"Do I? Oh, God. What now? Do you think it'll go away?" John said, his face suddenly serious. "I just hope you won't catch any of my happiness. It might kill you! It's a dangerous thing this _feelings_ business."

Sherlock bent down and quickly brushed his lips on John's. "I like to see you smile."

The doors opened and they met an elder man with a tired look in his eyes. John thought that two in the morning was way past the man's curfew. Still he presented them with a wide smile.

"Bienvenu, monsieur Holmes! C'est un plaisir de vous revoir," said the man, giving them a small bow.

"Merci, Claude. C'est vraiment bon d'être de retour. But please, let's keep to English," Sherlock said reaching for John. "This is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson. John, this is Claude, he's an old family friend who happens to be our butler."

"Oh, hello," John said with a smile, giving his hand for Claude to shake.

The elder man surprised him by taking John in a tight hug, and planting two kisses on the doctor's cheeks. "No need to be formal with me Doctor Watson! Any friend of Sherlock's deserves a warm welcome!" he said with a strong French accent.

"Is that so?" John murmured looking pleadingly at Sherlock. _Get him off me! I can't breathe!_

Sherlock laughed and rested his hand on the old butler's shoulder. "I think that's enough warmness. You're turning John blue."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor," the man said. "I wasn't expecting you to bring company, Sherlock. I have only arranged your room. I must confess that you caught me off guard. I guess it was a lucky mistake, eh? I'll take your bags, now."

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "We're not a—" but the man was already gone. "Why? Every time. Every single time," he muttered. Then he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "So, a chauffeur, a butler, a Rolls Royce and a flat in the heart of Paris. Is there anything else I should know about?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know… Did you have tea with a Maharaja? Are you close friends with the King of Tonga or something?"

"Well, not the _Maharaja,_ no," Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, for God's sake—" he stopped, noticing that Sherlock was looking at him with a strange grin on his lips. "What?"

"Come," he said reaching out for his hand.

"What? Where?"

"Oh, just come!" Sherlock said impatiently, grabbing John's hand and dragging him down the corridor. They entered the main bedroom passing by Claude in a rush. "Is it open?"

"Yes, it is. It's a good night for it. The sky is clear."

"Thank you. You may go now. We'll call if we need you," Sherlock said with a nod.

The older man nodded back and walked away, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the middle of the room.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do, Sherlock. What's going on?"

"Close your eyes," he said, murmuring.

John scowled, but he did as told. Sherlock took both his hands in his and led him through the room. John heard something that resembled a door being opened and the distinct cold breeze from outside_. Not door, window._They were walking again. _Not window, door. Balcony door,_ John thought and his smile grew wider.

"Your cheeks will hurt in the morning," Sherlock said.

"It'll be worth the pain," John took one deep breath, absorbing all the new sensations. "Can I?"

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, moving out of the way.

John opened his eyes and looked around until he spotted it. Beautiful, majestic, mighty, and intimidating. The Eiffel Tower was right there, and once again John felt so very small. He held on to the banister and turned completely to face the metallic structure. He was completely mesmerised by the sight. How was it possible that a few tubes of metal bolted to each other could cause such an overwhelming sensation? _That's not a very romantic way to see the Eiffel Tower,_ he thought.

"What do you think?"

"I feel like I'm everything and nothing at the same time. I feel like the biggest and the smallest person in the world. I feel like a drop of water and an ocean," John murmured, turning to face Sherlock. He laced his hands around the detective's shoulders and propped himself up on the balls of his feet so he could reach his lips. He kissed him tenderly, all his feelings leaking through the caress of his lips on Sherlock's. Soon after he broke away. "Happy birthday," he muttered.

Sherlock grinned. "John. No, please."

"Oh but yes, please!" he said. "Now, I believe we have a very comfy bed waiting for us," he added, looking over Sherlock's shoulder to the very inviting room. "And I need to give you my present."

"I wonder what that might be."

"Don't need to wonder. You'll get it very soon."

Sherlock pulled him inside the room and closed the door and the curtains before turning back to John, who was standing in the middle of the room, checking him out, his coat and scarf thrown aside.

"What are you looking at?"

"Your arse," John said, openly.

"Oh really?"

"Hmm. And I was imagining all the things I could do to it," he gave him the lopsided grin that Sherlock had catalogued as the _sex smile_. "It's an amazing arse."

Sherlock got closer and all but attacked John's lips with his own, parting them and hungrily entwining their tongues. Kissing John had become such a natural action for Sherlock. They fit so well together it was almost like the universe had created them purposefully for each other.

John was uncommonly passive, though. It was like he was reading Sherlock's moves, waiting to react instead of leading, as he used to. Sherlock broke away, hands sliding slowly to the small of his back.

"Something wrong?" he questioned, noticing his voice was somewhat raspy.

"No, why?"

"You're not moving," as he talked his hands slid downwards. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Why aren't you moving?" Sherlock pressed his lips on John's temple and started kissing down John's neck.

"I am," John said.

"John…"

"Look, it's _your_ birthday. I'm just putting myself in your hands," John said, tilting his head to the side.

Sherlock looked anxious. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he said, grasping John's firm arse.

"Then I believe it's time for an experiment."

John's eyes were so bright, so confident. It was so much more than thrill. It was… trust mixed with something else that Sherlock couldn't quite define. He gently tugged at the hem of John's jumper and pulled it up and off his torso. Then he quickly disposed of his own coat and jacket, the tight shirt favouring the contours of his long, lean chest.

John silently reached up and started unbuttoning the detective's shirt, making the latter shiver every time his hands touched his skin. Sherlock was feeling oddly nervous. Why? Why? It wasn't the first time they shared their bodies with each other. What was it that made him feel so jumpy?

He felt John's hand cupping his cheek and looked down.

"I'm right here with you. You said you trust me. Now I want you to trust yourself," John whispered.

So that was it. As always John was right. He parted his lips, intending to talk, but soon his mouth was full of John's tongue. Sherlock stumbled back with the sudden kiss, but he quickly caught his balance and wrapped his long limbs around John's waist, pulling him closer, feeling his frame against the length of his body.

John smiled as Sherlock dexterously worked on the fly of his dark jeans that appeared to grow tighter by the second. He somehow managed to take off his shoes and socks and still be focused on what his lips were doing to Sherlock's neck. His hands reached the nape of Sherlock's neck and he slid them down his back, fingernails digging into his flesh.

Sherlock's eyes were dark and shiny. All he saw was John, and all he wanted was just two steps away. He steered the doctor, making him walk backwards until he felt the contact of the soft mattress against his thighs.

"Sherl—" John tried to call, unsuccessfully.

"Ask me John," Sherlock murmured as he laid the doctor down on the bed. "Ask me."

John smirked and pulled Sherlock to him, pressing another urgent kiss to his lips. "What do you want Sherlock?" he groaned as a pair of hands started to pull off his jeans and pants. "Tell me what you want."

It had become sort of a ritual for them. Sherlock liked to hear John asking him what he wanted, and John loved the answers that came off his lips. It was one of the many things they had learnt to read in each other.

Sherlock broke apart and threw John's jeans to the other side of the room. Then he went to his bag, searched for the bottle of lube and returned to bed, planting his lips on John's neck and biting harshly. He quickly disposed of the rest of his clothing and straddled the doctor's hips.

"Mother's love," John gasped as their erections grazed against each other.

Sherlock bent down and flicked his tongue over John's earlobe, nibbling gently. "Ask me again," he said, taking his neck, his voice so low and deep in his throat it was almost cavernous.

"What do you want? I'll give you anything," John said, hoarsely.

Sherlock pulled away just enough so his eyes could lock with John's. "I want you inside me, John. I want you to have me harder and faster than you ever had, and I want to feel you so deep inside me, I will be able to remember it in my after death."

It took about three seconds for John to react to Sherlock's words. He had never been so graphic about his intentions. He noticed the smug grin that was forming on Sherlock's lips. _You won't be smiling in a minute,_ he thought as he braced Sherlock with his legs and inverted their positions in bed.

"I want you on all fours, Sherlock, and I swear that if you don't get in position in the next five seconds, you won't be able to walk 'til _next life_," he roared slapping the side of Sherlock's hip.

The latter quickly obeyed, spreading his legs so John could position himself behind him. He felt the doctor's lips travelling down from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, always following the line of his spine. Then the distinct sound of the lube bottle being opened and squeezed and the cold touch of John's slick fingers, teasing around the tight ring of muscle.

"Hurry up, will you?" he growled.

John felt the sudden urge to go even slower, but he had promised that he would do what Sherlock asked, and as a man of his word, he slid the slick fingers inside Sherlock's warmness. As a result, the deep baritone moaned and moved towards John's touch, rolling his hips slowly in tempo with the fingers inside him.

"I want you to reach it, John," Sherlock pleaded. "I know you know how to do it. So do it."

John buried his fingers some more and the yelp of pleasure that came off of Sherlock's lips as the doctor found his prostate was hardly natural. This was new to him. He had never had Sherlock in this position, and the sight was painfully arousing. His body ached in anticipation, from his lip, tightly pressed between his teeth, to his aching cock, so desperate to be inside Sherlock's warmth.

"Sherlock, please," John whimpered as his hand scratched down his back again. "Please."

"Do it," he said.

Sherlock closed his eyes, as he concentrated on the feeling of John's thickness entering him. It was a feeling that he always looked forward to. It made him feel so safe and complete. John started to move, and he quickly caught his rhythm along with the right way to hit that sweet spot inside Sherlock in each and every one of his thrusts.

"Christ," Sherlock hissed as his John quickened his movements.

"You wanted hard, Sherlock?" John gasped. "So hard you shall have."

He held on Sherlock's hips and thrust violently into him, making the bed rock slightly beneath them. Thanks God for Persian carpets. Sherlock held onto the headboard of the bed and pushed against John, creating a new kind of friction.

John marvelled at the purring sounds that Sherlock was making, a mixture of pleasure and pain that fascinated him almost as much as the man himself. He dug his fingers in the flesh of Sherlock's arse and lolled his head back, closing his eyes so he could fully focus on his voice.

"God, John," he breathed. "So close."

"Together, Sherlock," John said, embracing his chest and pulling him to an upright position so Sherlock's head was resting on his shoulder, one hand around John's neck and the other curled around his shaft.

"But John—"

"Give me this," he breathed in his ear, his lips tasting Sherlock's sweaty skin. "Together."

Sherlock nodded and slowed his strokes, tightening the grasp on John's neck, wanting to be as close to him as if they were melting into each other. John was so deep inside him, so warm, so loving.

"Come for me, beautiful," the good doctor moaned as he hugged Sherlock's torso tightly.

Sherlock smirked and squeezed on his shaft, coming almost immediately. The ecstasy and the thrill were so overpowering; he almost didn't notice John's orgasm, not two seconds after his own. His heart was pounding loudly in his chest, in his ears, even his brain seemed to be throbbing. And all he could see, hear, or feel was John.

The convulsions stopped but neither of them moved. They just stayed there; John still buried inside him as his arms slowly loosened their grasp around Sherlock's middle. He could feel John's heartbeat against his back and was glad it was beating almost as fast as his own. He didn't want to let him go. He wanted to stay like this forever. And not only sharing a bed but sharing a life as something more than just _flatmates_. John was his favourite person. John was _his_ person, and he wouldn't give him up for anything in the world.

Slowly their breaths began to calm and Sherlock could feel the gentle touch of John's lips on his neck and shoulder.

"You okay?" John asked, caressing Sherlock's stomach.

"I'm better than okay," he murmured.

"Sherlock I—" John hesitated and kissed Sherlock's temple. What was he supposed to say? 'I love you'? No, that was too much for him to take at the moment, and due to what just happened, he couldn't take it seriously and not blame it on the afterglow. 'I'm tired?' It was true, but a bit crude for the occasion. John sighed. "Happy birthday," he purred in Sherlock's ear.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, smiling. "That was the best shag ever, John. We are getting better at this! Maybe we should practice some more?"

John laughed. "Hold your horses, cowboy. I'm not twenty-five anymore, and after two climaxes in less than four hours…you have to give me a break."

Sherlock nodded and finally moved off of John and pulled the duvet down so they could slide inside the soft bedding. They turned so they could be face to face.

"I think we've ruined your silk sheets," John remarked as he got closer.

"It was for a good cause," Sherlock yawned, lacing his legs with the doctor's and pulling him closer.

"Indeed it was," John said mimicking Sherlock's yawn. "Tomorrow's a big day. We should get some rest."

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed, leaning forwards and planting a goodnight kiss on John's lips. "Sleep well John."

Suddenly John felt bit distant from reality. Had Sherlock just kissed him goodnight? That never happened! He smiled and nuzzled his lover's chest before drifting off.

…

"I am serious. I've been quiet because, honestly I'm loving Paris and life's too short, but what the hell are we doing here?" John asked looking around with a frown. "Not that I'm complaining, the Louvre is a fantastic museum. But shouldn't we be looking for that Moran bloke?"

Sherlock stopped and looked dully at one of the paintings. "We can't move without Mycroft's OK, and the curator has something for us. That's why we're here."

"You know, you could say that kind of stuff before dragging me around Paris— hey, wait!" he hissed rushing after Sherlock who had suddenly quickened his stride. "Will you slow down?"

"Oh yes! Here it is," Sherlock said elatedly, obviously ignoring John's input. He rushed to a painting and turned around, examining every soul that passed by them.

John sighed and got closer. "I'm seriously considering punching you in the face," he murmured, folding his hands over his chest. "Do you mind explaining to me what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock smirked but didn't look at him. "We're waiting for the curator. He has something for us, I don't know what it is, but Mycroft said that it was relevant for the case."

"Right. Why here?" John said gesturing to the space around them.

Sherlock grinned mischievously and pointed at the painting to his left. John looked at it for a couple of seconds and a wave of laughter overtook him. He led one hand to Sherlock's arm, trying to catch both his balance and his breath.

"I see you get it, then," Sherlock said between chuckles.

"Oh god, you are such a troll! Who's genius idea was this?" John asked, brushing the back of his hand over his eyes and wiping away the tears.

"Well, mine, of course. It's kind of a private joke between Michel and me."

John bent down and looked at the little information on the bottom right of the painting: _RIGAUD, Hyacinthe. __Louis XIV En Costume de Sacre, 1702. 277x194 cm, Musée du Louvre, Paris._

"Does Mycroft know about this little private joke of yours?" he asked.

"Mmm, no. But then again, he is a pompous bastard, he might have noticed the similarities between himself and the late king of France," said Sherlock as he looked impatiently at his wrist clock. "Where is this man? I have more to do with my life!"

They stood there in silence. Sherlock had his hands deep inside his pockets and was looking dully at the people around them. He huffed and puffed far too often to be an acceptable behaviour for an adult male. John's military experience took over his posture – his hands were carefully placed behind his back, his feet were positioned shoulder width apart as he looked straight forward, at nothing in particular.

"John?"

"Mm."

"I'm bored."

John sighed. "Where is he, then?"

"I don't know. He's late," he said glancing at his clock again. His eyes roamed over the several people in the room and he huffed impatiently for what seemed like the thousandth time since they got there. "He's never late"

John rolled his eyes and captured Sherlock's attention. "Okay," he said gesturing his head towards a group of people that was gathering around a Monet. "Do them."

Sherlock grinned. "Two couples, the blonde and the red headed are married. He's clearly Irish, maybe half-Scottish. She's having an affair with the other man, who is in a relationship with…" he turned his head looking for the missing half of the second couple. "Her, see that woman in the orange coat? She's dying. Cancer, I'd say. This is clearly a 'bucket list' gathering; they seem all perfectly comfortable in each other's presence, so obviously they've known each other for a pretty long while, probably since middle school. No that's not it. Uni, certainly."

John was used to it. He really was. All the deductions and seeing Sherlock perform was a constant part of their day-to-day life. He shouldn't feel the rising heat when he started showing just how brilliant he was. He shouldn't feel the urge to shove him against a wall and do very, very bad things to him. But he did. Oh, he did. Seeing his brain work, hearing his voice, watching him in his best was John's drug. No, seriously. And there was nothing he could do to stop the embarrassing flush that rose up to his cheeks every time it happened.

"How— how do you know about the affair?" he managed to ask, looking intently at the group.

Sherlock smirked. "They have been walking side by side ever since they walked into the room. They never leave each other's sides. You could use the argument that they are long-time friends and that was normal. But watch the way the Irish man and the cancer lady touch each other, even in front of their respective sweethearts."

"I don't see anything unusual," said John. "They're holding hands and hugging, and the others don't seem to mind, they're just accustomed to it, I guess. It's a natural thing for them."

"Exactly, John. Now look at how the other two are behaving," Sherlock chanted, a feeling of pride rising up in his chest.

John tipped his head to a side. It seemed normal. They were just side by side talking. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then he noticed. The slight brushing of the fingers while they walked, the fear of touching openly like the other two did.

"They're feeling guilty about it. Oh, they feel like if they touch, the others might suspect, so they choose to behave in the exact opposite way of what they would if nothing was going on between them," John said with a grin. "You are brilliant."

Sherlock smiled. "Good, doctor. Very good."

John looked around again. There was a man in a grey hoodie jumper, earphones plugged in his ears and hands buried deep inside his baggy jeans' pockets. "Okay, now do him."

Sherlock furrowed his brows and watched for a couple of seconds before talking. "Something's wrong."

John looked up at him. "What?"

"Do you have your card?" Sherlock asked, still looking at the man. John nodded at him and his eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock captured his motion with his peripheral vision. "Good. We might need them." And with this he started following the man.

John followed close behind, his eyes focused on Sherlock, solely on him, alert to any threat that might approach him.

The man walked fast but nonchalantly, as if he was just very bored and anxious to get out of that place. He started walking to the 'Mona Lisa' area, and the population of visitors started to grow thicker, making it hard for John to spot the man in the hoodie.

As they entered the room, it was becoming nearly impossible to walk around.

"Stay close, John," Sherlock said, and John reached out one hand and touched him on the arm, to let him know he _was_ close. "He's armed."

John knew it. He had seen the volume of the gun tucked inside in his waistband. He wondered how in the world he walked in with that gun. They tried to pass through the thickening crowd, and suddenly a shout broke into the room. Sherlock came to a halt and looked down, alarmed.

A child was lying on the floor, a massive bruise on his forehead where it hit the hard tiles. He was crying his lungs out and soon the crowd that was once gathering around the 'Mona Lisa', was now forming a circle around them. Sherlock looked at the child, then around the room and then at John. Panic swimming in his eyes.

"I lost him John!" he roared in frustration. "Damn it!"

John rolled his eyes and kneeled down by the kid, examining the bruise on his forehead. The mother was shouting at Sherlock in French, but she was talking so fast that it made it impossible for him to capture whatever his limited knowledge of the language would allow him to gather.

"It's okay," John said to the little boy. "I'm a doctor, let me see that."

The boy looked up at John and snivelled, his eyes big and red. His little hand reached up and cupped the bump on his forehead. His lip started to tremble and he took a sharp intake of breath, preparing to cry out loud again, but John smiled at him and gently removed his hand to take a look at the bruise.

Meanwhile Sherlock and the woman continued their heated discussion. John could feel the stress and frustration coming from the man as if it was made of radioactive waves.

"You know," he said to the kid, the crowd finally starting to disperse. "I think your mummy might kick him in the arse."

He was absolutely sure the boy didn't understand a word he said, but something in the way John was talking made him laugh, and that was enough to make him smile too.

"And I'll cheer for her when that happens," he brushed the tears away from his face. "But Sherlock's a good lad. He was chasing a bad man, and you're little like me, so he didn't see you."

The boy nodded, and smiled, obviously just being polite. John smiled back and led a hand to his own chest. "John."

"Jean," said the kid, clapping his hands and laughing. "Jean! Regarde maman! Le docteur! Il s'appelle Jean aussi!"

John looked up and his eyes locked with Sherlock's. "Apologise to them. If we hurry we might still find the man—"

His words broke as he saw said man, making his way to the exit. His jumper, once plain grey, was now sporting a distinct red splatter pattern near the hem of his right sleeve. He jolted up and started running, trying his best not to hit anyone on his way.

"John, no!" Sherlock called, running after him. He watched as the soldier snaked between the people, holding his card and shouting so everyone would just get out of the way.

The man in the hoodie quickened his stride and Sherlock tried to keep an eye on him. He was doing a great job at it until a group of tourists came along, blocking his way.

"John!" he called again, but the doctor was already out of sight.

A tourist looked up at him in terror, and Sherlock brushed him off. His mobile beeped inside his coat pocket.

_Get out of there!_

_-Mycroft_

And suddenly everything in his mind was clouded by the fear of what could happen to John. He tried to walk around the circle, moving automatically and waving his own card to the security guards. "SIS! Let me through!"

Two shots.

Sherlock froze.

No. Sherlock didn't freeze.

The world around him did. Everything was numb and blurry, his strides rushing towards the sound of the gun.

John was unarmed. How could they have been so stupid? John always had his gun, _always_. His steps were automatic, unconscious, but certain. Somehow he knew where he was needed. He crossed the doors to the museum, stepping outside of the building. His head turning, seeking for John.

And then he saw him, a golden head bending over himself. Himself? No. There was another body there.

"John," Sherlock heard himself call as he got closer.

The good doctor looked up at him, his clothes and hands completely covered in blood. He saw the horrified look in Sherlock's face. "Not mine," he looked down at the dying woman. "I lost him."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I promise. I managed to slice his thigh. He can't go far with a wound like that. Call backup," John's voice was surprisingly calm, war training overpowering his nerves.

Sherlock nodded and went back to the museum, alerting the security, calling backup, an ambulance, sealing the building so no one else could get in or out. His steps were quick, now that the threat to John's life had more or less dissipated. He walked to the curator's office, another kind of bad feeling rising in the pit of his stomach.

His steps on the tiled floor sounded impossibly loud in his ears. The office door was locked. He tried to force the door handle but it was in vain. He turned to a security guard and called him. The man insisted that all civilians should gather around the—

"SIS, I need your assistance!" Sherlock cut in, handing him his card. The man quickly looked for the keys in his pocket and unlocked the door.

Sherlock looked around the room and his eyes settled on the bloody hand that could be seen from behind the heavy, wooden desk. He slowly walked towards the figure, eyes drinking in every detail, traces of a thick red liquid started to come to view and then…

The man lying down on the floor was soaked in a pool of blood, face down. He could see the forming purple bruises on his neck, where a pair of big, strong hands had been throttling him, squeezing his life out, just minutes ago.

The guard caught up with him, hissing a horrified "Mon Dieu" at the sight.

Sherlock turned the body over and closed his eyes at the sight. The face was gone. A pair of lidless blood-shot eyes stared blankly at him in a gruesome way. Sherlock sighed and withdrew his BlackBerry only to find an unread message from Mycroft.

_Sherlock, I need you back at the flat. Gather your things. You depart to Carcassonne at dawn. Leave Moran to me._

_-Mycroft_

He frowned at the little screen. Something had gone really wrong in Mycroft's plans, and Michel du Pont had paid for it.

He looked around the man's desk, looking for whatever it was the man was supposed to deliver to them. He saw a manila-coloured envelope carefully placed on top of several reports. He approached and lifted it, the latest report had been delivered two hours before. The envelope had been there for some time, by the creases in the paper, so the old curator had been careful to keep it under his sight at all times.

Sherlock took the letter opener and carefully cut the border of the envelope and peeked inside.

"Dog tags?" he muttered.

Surely it was a mistake. Maybe that was not his delivery. He held the cold metal tags in his hand, turning them around so the engravings were legible.

No, there were Sherlock's and John's names, along with their respective dates of birth and John's rare AB- and Sherlock's not-so-rare O- blood types. He looked inside the envelope for anything else, but there was nothing. He slid the dog tags in his coat pocket and turned around to leave.

"Monsieur!" the security guard called, his eyes wide, still in shock.

Sherlock ignored him. Long, confident steps took him quickly away from the office and lead him to the atrium once more. When he arrived, the police were already flooding the place. John was calmly talking with a policeman, telling him what had happened.

"…I identified it as being a ten blade scalpel. I managed to disarm him and slice his thigh. I doubt I hit any major artery, though. It was then that he took out the gun and shot. Two shots were fired, one hit the floor, and the second was the one that killed Miss Renoir," John was saying as Sherlock got closer.

"There's another body in the curator's office. The victim is the curator himself, Michel du Pont," Sherlock announced, looking John up and down, searching for wounds or any indication that he might be hurt. "Sherlock Holmes, SIS." he added as the policeman looked at him with a who-the-fuck-are-you expression. He showed him his card.

The man nodded and called a team to look around the perimeter.

"Sherlock are you okay?" John asked.

"Mycroft's plan went wrong. Michel had the same MO as the bodies in the warehouse. He was asphyxiated, his face was cut off."

John closed his eyes. "Fuck."

"We have orders to leave Paris as soon as the sun rises. We need to go back to the flat right now or—"

"Whose orders?"

"Mycroft's, of course!"

"And since when do you bend to your brother's will?" John seemed honestly disturbed by the thought of Sherlock obeying to an _order_ from _Mycroft._

"John, don't. Your life is at stake here. Everyone's life is. Sebastian Moran is a vicious and dangerous killer. I prefer not to risk it," Sherlock said, starting to walk towards the exit.

A couple of guards tried to stop him, but the magic card was put at service once more.

"So you flee?" John asked incredulously, following him with his blood-stained clothes making several heads turn. "You can't be fucking serious!"

Sherlock stopped. He turned to John and cupped the doctor's face between his large, cold hands. "I can't lose you, John. If it concerns your safety then I will move mountains to make sure you don't get hurt. Now shut up. We have to pack and you have to rest."

John frowned, but he kept silent. He was not going to behave like a good puppy. Not this time. He had his own plans, and he would do whatever it took to keep Sherlock safe and unharmed.

Whatever. It. Took.


	12. Fresh air

**A/N:** Bonjour everyone! So here's Chapter 12 with lots of fluff and some smut and poetry and all that swag.

Special thanks to my precious Chel (I love you very much and miss you even more!) for Beta-ing.

**Warnings** for probably not accurate landscape... I've mentioned that I have never been to France, so I based the landscape descriptions on the landscape we have here in Portugal when we're travelling to the country side.

**Chel**! Once again, because you loved it so much I'll dedicate it to you.

**Kitten!** Car smut is for you because you asked for it and this fool of a Hedgehog would to anything for you...and for smut.

Enjoy and Review.

*Bloo*

**P.S.** For **Visual/Musical References**, go to my profile page. There's a link that will direct you to my deviantArt journal, and TA-DA! ALL THE REFS MY DARLINGS! HAVE ALL THE REFS!

**P.P.S.** THANK YOU **MadeinCydonia** for the French corrections! I'll mend it all right away and I LOVE YOU for pointing it out! (*face palm* I am terrible.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12 – Fresh air<strong>

"John," Sherlock's voice was soft and low. "John, wake up. It's time to go."

John sat up, rubbing the heels of his hands on his eyes, trying to drive the sleep away. He looked around, taking in the room he was in. Then his eyes lifted and met Sherlock's.

"Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?" asked Sherlock, cautiously.

John frowned and sat up, stretching out his arms and massaging his neck. He hated falling asleep on the sofa. He always regretted it in the morning.

"I made coffee," Sherlock said, motioning to the cup on the coffee table, "and toast too. There wasn't any jam in the fridge. I suppose that's something I have to—"

John awkwardly got up and walked to the bathroom, closing the door with a loud thump.

Sherlock sighed and sat down, feeling the warm seat below him. So John was still cross with him. He was still angry because of the Louvre incident. John was mad because Sherlock was giving in to Mycroft. Why didn't the man understand that it was the smart thing to do if they both wanted to remain breathing?

Early reports had informed them that the man who killed Michel Du Pont and Madeleine Renoir was, indeed, Sebastian Moran. But despite the police efforts (or lack thereof) the former military man had escaped.

Mycroft was keeping silent too. When Mycroft was silent things were bad. It meant that he was personally making the arrangements for the next strike. If Mycroft was moving, then mountains were about to fall.

Sherlock glanced at the clock that was ticking above the arch that connected the sitting room to the corridor and scowled as he saw that it was little after half past five in the morning. Well, it wasn't the time itself that made him scowl. John was taking far too much time in the bathroom. They should be leaving now. They had a seven-hour trip to make and the sooner they left the sooner they would arrive.

Sherlock got up and strode to the bathroom, hand curled in a fist to knock. Just as his knuckles were about to knock on the wood, John's voice broke the silence. Sherlock's hand dropped.

"God, fuck fuck fuck," John's voice was muffled by the door, but still very understandable. "Oh Christ… _Sherlock_," and after that a grunt, a low moan, and a shuddery breath.

Sherlock felt awkward, and embarrassed, and aroused. Listening to John coming with his name on his lips was one of his favourite things. He paid attention as John turned the tap and washed his hands. Then there was the sound of him rattling his jeans and when he heard him fight with his belt, he knew it was time to silently leave and take his place by the couch once more.

John emerged from the bathroom and went straight to the room. Sherlock looked at the corridor, wondering if he should follow. Then he remembered he had the perfect excuse. The genius got up and walked silently to the room he had shared with the good doctor. He leant against the doorframe and watched.

"John," he called.

John stripped his shirt and folded it to put it in his bag. Then he looked over his shoulder, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock slipped his hand inside his coat's pocket and retrieved two chains. Two metal pieces balanced from each chain. He noticed John's frown.

"This is what Michel was supposed to deliver to us," Sherlock said holding out John's dog tags. "I believe it to be some sort of GPS in case one of us goes missing."

John silently took the tags and placed them around his neck, chills rising in his chest, where cold metal met warm skin. Sherlock stared for a while before the extent of John's skin disappeared under the fabric of a red t-shirt. He put his own tags on and looked intently at John, who was doing a bloody good job of ignoring him.

Besides his quiet demeanour, Sherlock knew it was hard for John to remain cross at him.

"Here," Sherlock said tossing a set of keys to John, who caught them mid-air.

John gazed at him with a quizzical look. Then his eyes dropped to the keys in his hand and his lips pursed. John's eyebrows furrowed and Sherlock could almost hear the "No fucking way" the ex-soldier muttered silently in his head.

"I didn't have any sleep, so you should drive first," he he said with a dismissive look. "If we leave now, we'll be able to arrive around one o'clock, which gives us time to have lunch with AJ and the kids," he suddenly scowled. "I'm still not sure I want that…"

John actually chuckled, but he kept silent. That was the worst form of torture for Sherlock, the silent treatment. _Still, he laughed, sort of. This might go better than I first anticipated._ He waited for John to sort his luggage and took hold of both their bags.

"Shall we?" His lips quirked in a smile and John shook his head before exiting the room and going for the door.

Sherlock tapped the elevator button and looked down at the ex-army doctor, who was staring at the aluminium doors, his arms folded over his chest.

"John, talk to me," Sherlock said, his voice soft as warm milk and honey. "Come on, you can't stay cross with me forever."

John pursed his lips and kept staring forwards. The doors dinged and slid open, and Sherlock got in after John, pressing the button.

"You know I'm right. You know I'm doing the right thing. I dislike it just as much as you do, but it's something I _have_ to do. Mycroft is a hateful bastard, and I really, _really_ hate him but I need to know that you are safe," Sherlock said again, his tone still soft and low, trying to break John's wall. It was much harder than he thought, and once again he smiled, remembering just how exceptional _his_ John was.

They got out to the street, the sun wasn't up yet and the cold morning breeze made both of them shudder. John pulled his scarf closer against his neck and Sherlock turned his coat collar up before picking up their bags again. Their eyes met and Sherlock furrowed his brows at John's quizzical look.

"What?" the detective asked. John tipped his head to a side. "Oh, it's parked a block down from here," he said, motioning his head. "Are you going to remain quiet? It's going to get dull, John. You are going to end up bored and then you will fall asleep and end up killing us both. Then all your efforts are going to be irrelevant, and my own decisions will stop being right."

John sighed, but he didn't answer. Sherlock smiled and kept walking by his side. Then he held out his hand and pointed at a black BMW parked a couple of feet away. "That's the one."

He noticed the doctor's eyes going wide as he looked at the car, then he quickly made his way to the door.

"John—"

"What, Sherlock?" John snapped. "What other mind game are you going to play now? There! I'm talking! And no, I'm not okay with you bending to Mycroft's will like a good little puppy! You are more than that! You are Sherlock Holmes! You don't fear for anyone's life! Hell you don't even fear for your own life! So stop using mine as an excuse! Honestly, why you are doing this, I don't even know. What's going on – what's _really_ going on – is a mystery to me. But I don't care what your plan is, because fuck me God, I won't let anything harm you! And that's a promise. Now get in the bloody car and shut the fuck up!" he fell silent and ran a hand through his hair, fingers pulling the soft strands. A long shuddering sigh came out of his lips.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"Yes, I guess," the good doctor murmured.

"Good. What I was going to say was: John, we're in France, they drive on the left side, here."

John looked up at him with wide eyes and then he strode to the other side of the car, giggling. "Just get the fuck inside."

It took him about half an hour to get used to the inverted gear, but John quickly got the hang of it.

"Left here," Sherlock murmured, turning the heating on.

They drove for several miles. Sherlock ended up falling asleep, breathing slowly and leaning his head against the cold glass of the window.

John looked at him and smiled. No, he really wasn't happy with the fact that Mycroft was using John as an excuse to make Sherlock do as he very well pleased. Sherlock was an extraordinary man, with a very unique head, and it pained him – yes, _pained_ him – to see him reduced to a scared little school boy. Images of a young Sherlock and an older Mycroft telling him that he wouldn't let him play outside – wait, no, not _play outside_ – play with his violin, if Sherlock refused to do something for him, came to the forefront of his mind. Mycroft could be a pain, and Sherlock could be the most stubborn man John had ever met, but the elder Holmes surely knew how to play the right cards, how to pull the right strings to subdue his younger brother and put his brilliant, _brilliant_ brain at his service.

With his tour guide fast asleep, John turned on the car's GPS. A few more minutes and the faint orange-coloured skies started to appear in the horizon. Once again, John looked over at Sherlock and he wondered if he should wake him up to share the dawn with him. The man barely slept per se, but when he did, it was hard to wake him._Well, I could let him rest…_

"Sherlock," John called, softly brushing his hand over Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock wake up."

The genius stirred and his lids fluttered open as he leant towards John's comforting touch. "We can't be there yet," he mumbled lazily.

"No, we're still on the A71 on our way to Toulouse. Look to your right," John murmured.

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his hands in his eyes, clearing his sleepy vision. When he looked out of the window, the sun was just making its appearance from behind the hill. His clear blue eyes were mirroring the view from the landscape and the window was mirroring Sherlock's rare, genuine smile.

A part of John's heart melted and he could swear he could feel himself falling in love with him all over again.

"Beautiful," Sherlock said under his breath, then he turned to John and his smile grew wider. "Thank you."

"Go back to sleep, now. I'll wake you up when I stop for coffee, okay?" John said softly, his right hand going down to shift the gear.

Sherlock just nodded and leant his head back against the glass, his eyes roaming over the rushing, golden landscape. Soon after, he was drifting off to sleep again.

He woke up a couple of hours later, feeling the trepidation of the car slow down as John took a right turn. "John?"

"Oh, hi there," came the cheerful reply. "I'm just going to refuel. Try to stand and walk a bit, keep the blood circulating in your legs, yes?"

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked, yawning.

"I have no idea whatsoever. The GPS lady decided to start talking French with me. I swear I was this close to throwing her out of the window. But that would be a bit rude, wouldn't it?" John got out of the car to do his business.

Sherlock chuckled. He knew just how hard it was for John to not start shouting abuse at the GPS. He and his funny relationships with technology was quite amusing at times. _And yet, he can break into a hospital system with a BlackBerry. My beautiful John._ Sherlock leant forwards and adjusted the GPS settings.

"Blimey! It's bloody hot outside! Is this normal for this time of the year?" John got in the car and placed his jacket in the back seat. "Come on now. I need a coffee."

"Want me to drive the rest of the way?" Sherlock asked with a smile, already knowing the answer.

"No need. I'm fine, I just need coffee," the doctor looked at him. "Now!" he added.

Sherlock got out of the car and went to the boot, retrieving a thermal bottle and going back in, handing the bottle to John. "I told you I made coffee this morning," he said, putting his seatbelt on. "It's still warm. Come on, start the car and get me out of here. This smell is making me nauseous."

John rolled his eyes and drove away, taking a sip of his warm coffee every now and again.

The landscape was becoming more and more rural. Small cities were replaced by small villages in the distance, and the small villages eventually turned into green fields that extended for what seemed an infinity of space. Every now and then a small farm would make its appearance, along with some animals that were lounging around under the warm sun.

"Charming," John said, looking at a small house, already down to ruins. "I would give anything to take some photographs of that."

Sherlock looked at him with a quirked eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"I do have interests that go beyond crappy telly, you know? Photography was always a secret passion of mine," the good doctor blushed. "Don't look at me like that. Some like to sing, some like to dance, some play the violin and I happen to enjoy taking photos. Give me a break."

"I haven't said anything. Au contraire, John, I find it quite… interesting."

The next couple of hours were spent exchanging opinions about their respective hobbies. John told him about his past as the captain of the school football team. Sherlock told him about his conquer as European champion in fencing. Then they discussed John's wish to become a guitar player in a time when the great rock bands were in a high roll. Sherlock answered by defending that classical music was far more relaxing and pure than "that load of metallic crap that society feeds us with. All a bunch of commercial strikes—"

"Okay, okay. Hang on a minute. I thought you liked it. I caught you humming Rolling Stones and Queen more than once, now." John said with a frown, as he made a right turn to leave the highway. "How does that work?"

"You hum them, or I hear them on the telly and I end up with the melodies in my head, John. It doesn't mean that I appreciate the songs," Sherlock scowled and clicked on one of the buttons on the panel.

"Well, if you ask me, I don't believe that any kind of music that contains lyrics is your cuppa," John smiled as the hood of the car started to lower. "Neat, Sherlock. Very neat," he said with a smile, feeling the fresh air on this face.

"Don't be judgemental, John. I'm very fond of Opera, and the old classics. Frank Sinatra is one of my personal favourites," he chuckled. "AJ and I used to perform to our family in Christmas, before Father passed away. After that, Mother forbade us to sing."

John smiled and fell silent. He had a half-formed image of Mummy Holmes, nothing very clear, only suppositions built under the few things he had heard about her. John saw her as a very severe woman that lived in a traditional way. The fact that she had sent Sherlock's sister to Scotland when she came out, just confirmed his initial suspicions.

To him, she was a cold woman that avoided any kind of affection towards her children. Perhaps that cold demeanour, so very different from his own mother's, was what turned the Holmes brothers into cold and heartless bastards in the first place. John winced at this thought. Sherlock wasn't cold or heartless. He just lacked love.

What would Mrs Holmes think of the new stage of their relationship? She would probably murder John and send Sherlock to some hospice in the middle of the Pacific Ocean until he was cured of his sudden insanity. For some reason, the thought made him giggle.

"John?"

"Mm," John looked up to see Sherlock looking intently at him through the dark lenses of his aviator shades. Sherlock's image struck him like a lightning. The man was gorgeous. His dark curls were tousled by the wind, the ebony colour turning almost red under the sunbeams. His pale skin glowing in the golden light, the top three buttons of his light-blue shirt unbuttoned, revealing a hint of his marble-toned chest. John scowled, noticing that he was staring, and tried to turn his focus back on driving.

"John," Sherlock called again, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"What?" John snapped a bit harsher than he'd intended. "I'm trying to drive here. What do you want?"

"I'm bored," the detective said, turning in his seat.

"Oh, God. Oh no, Sherlock please, no. You have to be strong! Please, for me, survive this. If you see a light, stay away from it!" John's sarcasm was heavy in his voice.

"Charming, John. Very charming."

"I'm actually proud of you. It took you six hours to get bored."

"Three," Sherlock mended, sprawling his legs and drumming his fingers on his thigh. "I spent the first three hours sleeping."

"Fair enough," John laughed and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Jesus Christ. You have that look on your face. I hope you know that I am driving and cannot give you whatever it is that your mind is making you want."

"Oh, yes. I'm very aware of that," his grin grew wider. "Don't worry. I don't want you to do anything. You see, John, there's something that's been spinning in my mind since this morning; your voice, calling my name as you were coming… Did you know that my name on your lips sounds so delightfully erotic?" Sherlock's voice was a low purr. He leant his head back against the head-rest and bit his lower lip, knowing that John's attention was on him.

"You have to stop spying around the flat. Next time why don't you come in and lend me a hand… or a mouth?" the doctor smirked, looking forwards again.

The road was almost deserted now that they had left the freeway. The sight around them was beautiful. Again, the fields surrounding them were so green. The black BMW snaked through the landscape, and now and then another lonely car would cross paths with them.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls and let out a sigh that was so very close to being classified as a moan.

"Sherlock, I'm serious. Behave," John warned again.

"I'm not touching you, am I?" Sherlock's low chuckle went straight to the army doctor's groin.

John forced his eyes on the road as Sherlock's hand went down to cup his own crotch, his other hand going up to touch his lips.

"Why don't you tell me what you were thinking about, John?"

"Why would I?" John teased. "Use your own imagination if you want to jerk off. Don't steal my fantasies."

Sherlock's hand squeezed on his hard prick and he moaned – yes it was a moan this time.

"Come on, John. I want to hear you say it," he pleaded.

"For Christ's sake, keep your hands to yourself. I swear to God that someday you will regret teasing me like that."

That only seemed to have spiked Sherlock on even further. "Oh, please, do tell me. What will you do? Will you pin me down, John? Will you rip my clothes off and fuck me so hard I won't be able to walk for a whole fucking month?"

John's eyes widened as he heard Sherlock's voice citing the same words he had told him so long ago. So much has changed since that afternoon. And hearing Sherlock quoting him was so unbelievably arousing! _Focus, Watson. For fuck's sake, you moron, you are going to end up killing you both!_

His attention was captured by the familiar sound of a zipper being lowered and he had to use all his strength to not look at Sherlock's spidery hand sneaking inside his… _his_ red boxer briefs.

Holmes slowly traced his lower lip with his index finger. Then his finger trailed up and ran along the bow of his upper lip. The hand on his groin was rubbing his erection softly. "God…"

John's own cock was already hardening shamelessly, it hurt being confined to the tight space inside his jeans. Yet, he made his best efforts to—

"Sherlock!" John's voice pitched high as he saw the madman free his erection from its hiding place in John's underwear. "For heaven's sake put that back inside. What if someone sees you?"

"Oh, John, but I want to be seen," Sherlock murmured, curling his fingers around his shaft. "I want to come for you just like you came for me this morning."

"You fucking tease. You are going to be the end of me," John whined, watching as Sherlock started to stroke his hardness. "God, you are so gorgeous."

Sherlock moaned at the praise, his hand tightening on his prick. "So hard, John…"

"Yes, beautiful. Yes you are," John's voice dropped and his words were coming in soft, low purrs. "Take your time. Make it nice and slow for me, yes love?" John slowed down a bit so he could split his attention between driving and watching Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and his right hand ran unhurriedly along the length of his erection. He twisted his wrist on the downward motion and his head lolled back. "John…" he moaned.

"Mm, yes, Sherlock. Beautiful… so beautiful…"

It was. Sherlock was practically perfect. If one was able to ignore his childish nature and sharp arrogance, it was fairly easy to focus on his external beauty. And right now, under the bright sunlight, with his impossibly long fingers stroking his cock, John could give his life on the assumption that that was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He bit his lower lip.

"Sherlock, take off your shades. Let me see your eyes… Let me see you whole," John asked, his voice so gentle and full of undeniable lust.

Sherlock complied, taking his sunglasses and placing them on the compartment by the door.

"Good. Precious," John's voice was hoarse. "Are you thinking of me, Sherlock?"

"John…" Sherlock moaned again, his strokes suddenly quickening, his thumb grazing around his leaking tip.

"I'll take that a yes…" the good doctor smiled. "Am I on my knees? Is my mouth around you? Or am I inside you? Thrusting slowly, hitting that lovely spot over and over again?"

"Fuck…" Sherlock's fist tightened again. "Oh, John…"

"Mmm, you like that, eh?" John's eyes were on the road again. A red Ferrari passed by them and John's eyes shone with momentary panic, but it faded just as fast as it appeared. "Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes… I like that… God…" the detective bit his lower lip, his hand pumping harder.

"You didn't tell me, though. Am I on my knees or inside you?"

"On y-your knees…" Sherlock babbled, groaning as the previous thought came back to the forefront of his mind.

"Yes… you're delicious, Sherlock. You're so bloody delicious," the blonde moved uncomfortably in his seat, looking for a comfortable position, and failing to find one. No one could be comfortable while sporting such a massive erection. "Fuck… Sherlock. Do you have any idea of how much I want to do that to you right now? Get on my knees and taste you… suck you so hard until you come in my mouth."

Sherlock's breathing became shallow and erratic, his fist was working so hard and fast John was sure he wasn't going to last long. "Oh… Jesus…"

"Yes, baby" John's voice came in an almost-whimper. "Come on…"

"Joh— oh… John…"

"That's it. Let go, love. Focus on how wonderful it feels. Come for me, gorgeous."

Sherlock rubbed his thumb on the head of his cock and stroked down, his hand going completely still, resting at the base and holding his shaft as it pulsed, releasing his semen in long thick spurts. "Fuck, John! Yes!" His baritone moaned loudly.

John watched in astonishment as Sherlock's come landed on the base of his shirt and on his hand. His face was of pure pleasure, his features were so relaxed it made him look about ten years younger. Once again, John felt his heart flutter.

"Goodness gracious," the doctor murmured, shifting gears and speeding up again.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, his hand lazily stroking his quickly deflating cock. The smile he sported was as bright as the sun itself. "Doctor Watson… My doctor…" he muttered, opening his eyes and looking at John.

"Your hand. Give it to me," John said, still looking forward. "Let me taste you."

Sherlock whined in approval and led his hand to John's lips. John darted his tongue out and licked Sherlock's come, thoroughly cleaning his long fingers. His erection was still protruding in his trousers. Hell he was sure that all the blood of his body was now in his—

"What do you think you're doing? Sherlock sit back, I'm driving," John panicked as he felt Sherlock's lips roaming on John's neck, a warm hand caressing his thigh.

"Hush John… I just want to make you feel good."

"Sherlock? Please. Not now. When we arrive I promise I'll let you do anything with me. But for now, please… please let me make sure we get to stay alive."

"You don't want me," it wasn't a question. Sherlock's voice was truly disappointed.

"No!"

"No? So you don't want me!"

"No, it's not that! Fuck, Sherlock just take a good look at me! I'm rock-hard and I can assure you that it wasn't the infinite miles of pretty landscape or the jolly singing birds that left me like this. I want you. Hell, I want you so much. Just not while I'm driving a killing-machine," John looked at the genius. "I want to survive if I want you to make me feel good. If we die because I was having a glorious orgasm, then it wouldn't be worth it, right?"

"At least you'd die happy."

"Sherlock, I'm serious."

Sherlock kissed his neck and then his temple and cheek. "Okay," he gave John a small smile and sat back, buttoning his trousers and putting on his shades again. "Prepare to turn right."

They fell silent for a while. Sherlock had opened the glove compartment and was cleaning the hem of his shirt. John was chewing on his lower lip, lost in his thoughts.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"You do know I want you, right?" John didn't take his eyes away from the road. "I want you like I've never wanted anyone before."

Sherlock's eyes focused on John's features, analyzing every expression, every quirk of an eyebrow or twitch of his lips. But John was sincere. If anything, his words seemed to hold a whole different meaning… a _bigger_meaning.

"I know," the detective said quietly. "I want you too."

…

John got out of the car and looked flabbergasted at the house in front of him. _House? I would call it a small mansion._ John thought to himself as he closed the door.

It was a two-floor residence in dark brick and an equally dark roof. The house stood in a glade in the middle of a wooded area, and it looked like it was drawn out of a fairytale book.

In the distance he could hear the faint tune of a string instrument and the distinct sound of children's laughter. He smiled and looked around to spot Sherlock, who was leaning against the car with their bags in hand.

"Shall we?" taller man asked with a smile, making way to the entrance.

John silently followed him, looking around and smiling widely as he breathed in deeply. Oh the fresh air of the country. How he had missed it. His memories flew to the time when he spent his summer vacations in his grandparents' house in Hexham. He recalled running around and going to the village with his bicycle. He and Harry used to fight to see who would have the first turn on the tire-swing that was placed on grandma's old oak.

They used to camp outside. His father would pile up some lumber and they sat around the fire, listening to grandpa's stories of the war. He recalled grandma saying that when his father was born his grandfather was abroad, getting shot at. It seemed to be a recurring trait in the Watson's family. His heart clenched every time he thought of not being there for the birth of his child. He smiled and shook his head. _Not that I'll ever have kids._ He looked at Sherlock's lean figure and his lips curved into a loving smile. _That chance is long gone for me._

"John?"

The army doctor seemed to have been brought back to reality. His eyes focused on Sherlock, who was staring back at him, intently.

"Yes?"

Sherlock's hand brushed softly over his cheek, wiping away the pearly drop. "You're sad."

John was shocked. He hadn't noticed he was crying. He furrowed his brows. "No, I'm not. I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"Do you feel like crying when you're tired?"

The doctor exhaled. "No, not really. Leave it. I'm good."

Sherlock nodded and remained quiet as they entered the house. John looked around and smiled at the cosy feeling of the room around them. It seemed like they had entered a fairy tale house. Everything was wooden and it had a certain… mystical look. And Sherlock looked oddly fitting in that particular environment.

John chuckled and Sherlock turned to him, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"It's lovely," the army doctor said briefly.

"Come on then," Sherlock led the way to a flight of stairs.

The large corridor was well illuminated, the direct sun light turning the light-yellow walls into a delicious shade of gold. John looked curiously at the signature of a particular painting that was hanging next to a door. _S. Holmes_. He took two steps back and observed every detail of the landscape that was portrayed on the piece of canvas.

"My father painted that when he was on his honeymoon. It's somewhere near…" Sherlock hesitated, trying to recall the place. He opened the bedroom door and entered, still lost in thought. "Düsseldorf if I'm not mistaken."

"You father was a painter?"

"No, don't be silly, John. He was a diplomat. Painting was for him what playing the violin is to me," Sherlock answered from inside the room. "Oh…" he muttered.

"What?" John appeared by the entrance and looked around the large room. There was nothing wrong with it. There was a carpet on the floor and a couple of armchairs by a fireplace. The wardrobe was next to the entrance to the bathroom and two wooden nightstands were placed on each side of— "Oh…" John mimicked Sherlock's murmur at the sight of the big wooden bed. "Fancy," John said with a laugh.

"You don't mind?"

"It's not like we've never shared a bed before."

"Yes. My thoughts precisely," Sherlock smiled back at John. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

John strode downstairs again, following Sherlock to the large space of the kitchen. Sherlock fussed around the cabinets for a moment and then he turned to John. "We have… tea, and… well… tea."

John chuckled and shook his head, dearly. "Tea will be fine," he said, not wanting to point out that Sherlock hadn't even looked in the fridge. It was more than obvious that that specific appliance was not made to store food, at least not in Sherlock's mind. He grinned as he cherished the rare occasion of Sherlock brewing them some tea, then he walked towards the window and took a peek outside.

"Those are your sister's children, yes?" he asked absentmindedly.

Near a large pool that sat on the back of the house, a couple of kids were dancing with each other, to the sound of that string instrument that they had heard upon their arrival. The boy was holding the little girl's hands and spinning them around in the green grass, his bright ginger strands bouncing along with the little girl's dark locks.

John only noticed Sherlock's presence behind him when he felt their arms brushing softly, as Sherlock handed him his warm cuppa. The taller man looked out of the window, following John's gaze.

"They grew up so much since the last time I saw them," he commented, dearly.

"When was that?"

Holmes hesitated. "Last year, just before I met you. We had Christmas dinner at the manor. Shamine was three, Pascal had just turned six."

John smiled when hearing the fondness that was so beautifully present in Sherlock's voice. To his great surprise, he was getting to know his human side. Sherlock was always so careful in hiding his humanity. It was warming to know that he was revealing it to John, letting him in. _What does it mean Sherlock? I wish you would talk to me more._

"You can call me wild and untameable. You can call me a destructive force. You can see me as a merciless, soulless, powerful source. But look deeper, my love, as I look deeper upon thee. For I have found in you the weakness that lies in me."

John looked at him with a pair of warm, deep, startled eyes. What was Sherlock on about, now? The latter looked back, locking their eyes together. A small, somewhat sad smile formed on Sherlock's heart-shaped lips.

"Atandra is singing in Gaelic. I was just translating it," he clarified. "It tells the tale about an impossible love between two major forces of nature. The fire, wild and untameable, fell in love with the calm waters of the lake. It's an unfeasible love, because, as you very well know, the water is the fire's biggest weakness…" Sherlock trailed off, unspoken words hanging loudly in the air. "It's just an old tale our grandmother used to tell us when we were little."

John hadn't even noticed the almost-angelic voice that was singing along with the soft plucking of the string instrument. He turned to face the taller man and on an impulse he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and hugged him tight. He laid his head on Holmes' firm chest and remained quiet, listening to his rather quick heartbeat.

Sherlock hesitantly laced his own hands around John's waist and let his head rest on top of John's. That familiar scent filling his nostrils, making him feel safe and calm again.

"Sherlock…"

"Please don't," the detective murmured.

"But—"

"I know, John," Sherlock turned John's face towards him. "Please. Not yet."

The soldier nodded and released his embrace, picking up his cuppa and silently finishing his tea.

"When do I get to meet them, then?" John asked quietly.

"Now. Come on," Sherlock smiled and opened the door that gave access to the back yard.

The sound if the instrument became suddenly more clear and John was finally able to identify it. _Harp. Atandra Holmes plays the harp. I wonder how it would be like to hear them playing together_.

"Sherlock!" an enthusiastic yell filled the air and was followed by an equally enthusiastic boy, running to hug the tall man. Sherlock smiled and held him up, spinning him around in the air. The boy clung to him with both arms and legs.

"Okay, monkey. Let me breathe, will you?" Sherlock chuckled.

The boy slowly got his feet back on the ground and Sherlock's attention was quickly claimed by the little girl that was pulling on the hem of his shirt.

"Can I have a hug too?" she timidly asked.

"Come here, kitten," Sherlock held her in his arms and pressed a loud kiss on her rosy cheek. "You are so tall, Shamine. One day you will be taller than Pascal."

"I don't think he's going to like that," she murmured as if she was conspiring.

"Well, I don't think he's got much of a choice," Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and looked around. "See that man there, by the door?" he asked putting the girl back on the grass and crouching down so he would somewhat match the children's size.

Shamine nodded and waved at John, receiving a wave and a wink back. She burst into nervous giggles and her cheeks turned a brighter shade of red.

"He's pretty," she said, sheepishly looking at her feet. "Who is he, Sherlock?"

"He's my friend. His name is John."

"Is he your best friend?" Pascal asked with a smile. "Like Shamine is my best friend?"

"And like mummy is mama's best friend," Shamine added.

"And like Puccini is Beethoven's best friend," Pascal continued, motioning to the two cats that were sneaking out of the house.

"And like—"

"Yes, I get it. And yes, John's my best friend, just like your mama is your mummy's best friend," Sherlock's eyes lifted to John. "Now, go on and say hi to him. I think he would like to have more friends."

John could not have anticipated this. Sherlock Holmes – _the_ Sherlock Holmes, seemed to be oddly talented with children. The smile on the doctor's lips was as big as it could get. He exchanged a quick glance with Sherlock and the brightness on the latter's eyes was nearly blinding. John mimicked Sherlock and crouched down so he would be levelled with both children.

"Well, hello there," he said with a wide smile.

"Hello, I'm Shamine, I h-have four years old—"

"It's 'I am', kitten. 'I _am_ four years old', and not 'I _have'_," Sherlock mended softly.

"Oh…" she seemed to ponder over the issue, then she smiled and turned to John again. "I am four years old and I like you because you are pretty and you remind me of that prince from the story that mama reads to us before we go to sleep," she finished her little speech by clinging onto John's neck, hugging him tightly.

"Oh, you are so sweet," John hugged her back. "A true princess indeed!"

"Oy! I want to say hi too! It's my turn!" Pascal whined.

"Shut up, Pascal. Go away, I'm hugging my prince! He's saying hi to _me_ now!"

John rolled his eyes. "Don't be rude. Princesses can't be rude. Let me say hello to your brother, okay?" John said, kissing the top of her head.

Shamine's clear blue eyes met John's. "Are you still my prince?"

"Only if you let me say hello to your brother."

The little girl quickly disentangled herself from John's arms and ran behind Pascal, pushing him softly towards the good doctor. "Go, go say hello! He smells nice too! Go!" she was saying.

Pascal, who was now wrapping his arms around John in the same fashion he had previously done to Sherlock, looked at his little sister and darted his tongue out.

"I saw that, Pascal. I told you I would not tolerate that kind of behaviour, didn't I?" said a familiar voice from behind them.

John looked up to see Anthea, or should he call her Evangeline? Either way, the woman was as beautiful as he remembered.

"Yes, mama. I'm sorry," the little boy let go of John and went to his sister. "Sorry Shami," he muttered and kissed her cheek.

Both Sherlock and John got up, the detective getting closer to his flatmate. Sherlock looked in Anthea's eyes and scowled. "Evangeline," he said in a clipped tone.

"Hello, Sherlock," she replied with a forced smile.

John could cut the tension with a butter knife.

"Mama, look! This is John! He's my best friend!" Pascal said, tugging at the hem of John's shirt.

"Hey! I thought _I_ was your best friend!" Shamine whined.

"Don't argue," Anthea warned with a stern look. Then she turned to John. "Doctor Watson. So we meet again," the smile on her lips was almost taunting.

John tried his best to keep formal and polite. The last time he had seen this woman, she had kidnapped him.

"Apparently…" he hesitated briefly, "_Anthea._"

"Oh, you remember. Please, call me Evangeline."

Sherlock felt nauseous at the sudden flirtation. "Where's AJ?" he knew the answer, obviously. He just didn't like the way this woman was talking to _his_ John.

"Why don't you deduce that, genius?" her tone was as bitter as Sherlock's.

"Oh please. Don't start, you two. For Christ's sake, give us some peace!" another female approached them and gracefully wrapped her arms around Evangeline's waist, planting a kiss on the woman's neck. Her blue eyes were piercing and almost as feline as Sherlock's, her full lips were curled in a familiar Cheshire cat smile.

"Mummy, look—"

"Pascal, go play with your sister," the newcomer said. "Now, please," she added when none of the kids had moved.

The eldest child nodded, took Shamine's hand and started to walk away.

"But I want to play with my prince!"

"Hush, Shami. The adults are going to get boring now."

"Why?"

"Because they're going to start talking about adult stuff," Pascal said, pulling her hand so she would hurry up.

John smiled at the children and when he turned he faced a pair of deep, observing eyes, cheekbones and a familiar scowl. "So you are the famous Doctor Watson," AJ said, tipping her head to a side. "My God, you are intriguing… and so big," she said at length. "And a handsome man too! Sherlock, you lucky bastard," she held out a hand for John to shake. "I'm AJ."

"Yes, it's nice to finally meet you," John's smile was oddly genuine. "I'm John."

"And you're late," she said, turning to Sherlock.

"Actually, we're ahead of schedule. We weren't planning to come until tomorrow," the detective raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, no. I mean, you're late for lunch. We already ate."

"I know," the genius said motioned to the wooden table that was set near the pool. "Risotto for starters and lamb for main course. It was rude of you not to have waited for us. You know how I like your lamb."

John smiled. God, the Holmes siblings could be so formal at times. If Harry were there, she would probably be swearing her teeth off.

"Sherlock, hush. The kids have schedules, they need to eat at certain times," John said with a scowl.

"See? Listen to the good doctor," Evangeline sneered.

"I wasn't talking to you," John added to her, "Anyway, AJ, would you mind preparing us some snacks?"

"No! Not at all! You two go and sort yourselves out," she held Evangeline's hand. "You come with me. I need help with the thing."

"You mean the cooking," Evangeline said with a mocking smile.

"Shush, they don't need to know that!" AJ pushed her through the door, leaving Sherlock and John alone once more.

Sherlock sighed and slouched against the brick wall. "Something tells me that these are going to be some very tiresome days."

John looked up at him and then looked away again. "There. You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Leaving me out," he quietly said, turning away to enter the house again and making his way up the stairs.

"What? What are you talking about? John! Come back here!" Sherlock followed him, his long legs giving him a fairly pleasant advantage. He caught up with him just as John was closing the door to their shared room. He managed to put his foot between the door and the frame. "John, talk to me."

"I'm tired, Sherlock. I drove for almost eight hours straight. I need to rest."

"Why won't you talk? That's what you do, isn't it? You talk about things! So talk to me!" Sherlock's tone was rising.

"Do you even care?" the doctor backed away from the door and sat down on the bed. "Honestly. Do you care at all?" he ran a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. "You never talk to me. You never say what's wrong, what's the plan, what the fuck are we fighting against. You don't let me in!"

"I'm letting you in now!"

"Are you?" John's smile was sad and it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sherlock, you introduced me to your family – something that sooner or later would've happened anyway. But the fact is that I still feel like I don't know you," he got up and approached the taller man. "I don't care— Look, I know this is a big step for you. And I know that you have me considerably high on your list of people who you tolerate. I just wish you would let me know what all of this is," he gestured vaguely between the two of them, "What you're feeling… what we are."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He seemed to be having one of his internal thought battles again. That seemed to be happening an awful lot lately. He finally entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asked quietly, not meeting John's eyes. "I give you my word that I will keep my answers true," he walked to the bed and sat down, gesturing at John to do the same.

"Okay," the army doctor sat beside him and bit his lip. "Why did we leave Baker Street, Sherlock? I know there's more to it than just your lead on Moriarty."

The ease with which Moriarty's name left John's lips made Sherlock wince, as if the name itself made his mouth fill with the bitter taste of lemon.

"He was planning an attack. He was keeping us under tight surveillance. We would be dead by now if we hadn't fled. Baker Street is not safe while James Moriarty is running free," Holmes explained, his eyes fixed on the wooden floor.

"What? Sherlock, Mrs Hudson—"

"Is safe. I called her, and she assured me that she was going to remain at her sister's house in Middlesbrough."

John nodded and for a while he seemed lost in thought. "How long are we staying here? We can't hide forever."

"Just until Mycroft comes up with a new plan. I would arrange one myself, but he has connections and he is able to get things done much quicker. I might hate him, but I trust him and his work."

"So they locate the psychopath and we go after him? Sherlock that's… that's completely bonkers! It's insane!"

"Oh! I'm sorry! If you have a better idea, then please do share! In the meantime, let's trust my insanity, shall we?" Holmes snapped, turning his cold, grey eyes to face John. "We are playing with fire, John! In this game there can only be one survivor and I'm trying to make sure that it isn't him!"

John looked at Sherlock with a pair of big, startled eyes. He didn't remember seeing him this worked up in a long time. He sighed anyway. What he was intending to ask next was something that had been bothering him for a while, but with Sherlock this upset, he wasn't sure if it was the right moment to bring it up. He was considering his possibilities when the soft baritone spoke again.

"I don't know," he murmured. "I don't know what this is or even if we should label it. I just know that you make me feel alive. You became a crucial part of my life and my work and I don't want go back to living in the ignorance of what it's like to not have someone. I don't want to wake up to an empty flat and face a lonely life again. You are turning me into a human being, John. And I am…" Sherlock bit his lower lip and his hands started to shake. John caught his hands and caressed them softly. "I'm scared. I'm afraid of what I'm feeling because I don't know what it is. It's not logic! It feels so unbelievably good at times, but then it turns dark and foggy and then it doesn't feel good anymore. You are essential, John. I don't know why or how, but when I think of life without you, it hurts."

John remained silent for another couple of minutes. Sherlock's words were still echoing in his head. "Why didn't you let me say it?" he heard himself ask, without even noticing he was speaking.

"Because I want to be sure I can say it back," the reply came in such a low tone, it was almost a whisper.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John's hand went up to caress his cheek, turning him to look in his eyes. "You don't have to."

"No. But I _want_ to. Just not now. Not yet," Sherlock lowered his gaze again.

John pressed his lips softly to the detective's cheek, tracing a line from there all the way to his temple and then back down until they rested on his lips. He kissed him slowly and tenderly, probably the sweetest kiss they'd shared. His thumb started rubbing circles on the skin below his ear and then his hand snaked to the nape of his neck. His fingers started playing with Sherlock's curls. The latter released a low moan and parted John's lips, slipping his tongue inside his mouth.

"Boys! Come down, will you? You can keep on snogging after lunch!" Atandra called, knocking impatiently on the door.

They broke apart, John giggling and Sherlock scowling at the door. The doctor got up and held Sherlock's hand.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, please."


	13. It's all fine

**Chapter 13 – It's all fine**

Sherlock woke up with the first light of dawn. The timid sun rays were starting to warm up the room, kissing his face good morning. He shifted slightly, just to feel the warm pair of arms that were wrapped around his middle, along with the comforting heaviness of a head pressing against his back. Sherlock ran his hand over John's forearm in a soft caress. He could feel the embarrassing phenomena of a morning erection poking against his backside, and the feeling of it made his own forming hardness twitch in anticipation.

Without a word, one of the hands around him started rubbing softly on his flat stomach, first in soothing caresses, then in long strokes that went from his chest to the soft trail of hair below his navel. He bucked his hips back and felt John's prick pressing against his buttocks again. He let out a low moan just as John's hand ventured to travel further down Sherlock's belly, teasing at the waistband of his silk sleeping slacks. Warm lips pressed on the nape of his neck and shoulder, altering between kisses, licks and soft bites.

Sherlock leant his head back, eyes still closed, lips parted as he breathed out deeply. John's warm lips went up to bite at his lobe, making Holmes roll his hips once more and this time he felt the army doctor mimicking his movement, creating a new kind of friction.

John's hand slipped inside his slacks and his fingertips brushed softly on Sherlock's erection, inciting another soft moan. Sherlock turned to him and his clear blue eyes locked with John's, silent words travelling between them, until Sherlock smiled and arranged himself, so he would be straddling the good doctor's hips. John's warm hands ran down the pale skin of his chest, thumbs rubbing on Sherlock's nipples as his hips rocked softly underneath his firm buttocks. Sherlock bent down to kiss John's lips slowly and sweetly, before moving down to his neck and shoulder.

He felt John pulling on the waistband of his slacks in a silent plea. Sherlock got off him and discarded his bottoms, throwing them aside and moving to repeat the action on John. Then he placed himself on his hips again, moaning gently when their hot skin pressed against each other.

John cocked his head to the side and Sherlock automatically fetched the lube bottle from his nightstand, silently handing it to his lover. He mimicked John's smile and extended one hand so the blonde would squeeze some of the slick substance onto his hand. He rubbed his hands together, looking deeply in John's eyes, and then he lead them down to coat the hard flesh of John's erection, stroking him softly, watching closely as the army doctor closed his eyes and groaned at the exquisite sensation. Sherlock's lips met John's skin again, his tongue circling on his nipple, moaning when the blonde's hips went up to meet his hand.

Their eyes locked and John nodded at Sherlock. The latter breathed in deeply before leading John's hardness to his unprepared opening. A soft, warm hand caressed his cheek, reassuringly, silently telling him to take his time. Sherlock leant towards the calming touch and forced himself to relax as he slid down John's shaft. He bit his lower lip tightly, trying to divert the soreness from his anus to his lip, and then he slid down some more, unhurriedly, never stopping until John was completely buried inside him. His teary eyes shot open and he looked down at the expanse of golden skin below him. John had his eyes closed and his lips were curled up in a smile. His sleep-tousled hair was framing his face in the most delicious way. This man… this strong, fantastic human being was the best part of Sherlock. Not his brain or his sharp cleverness, but John. The heart he didn't acknowledge he had, he found it in John.

Capturing Sherlock's hesitation, the doctor looked at him with a pair of concerned eyes. John led a hand up to wipe a tear from Sherlock's cheek, trying to assure him that he needn't hurry. Sherlock bent down to kiss him and his hips started to move, slowly, lovingly, he didn't want to rush it and by the look in his lover's face, he didn't seem to mind. This silence between them did nothing to make their communication difficult. Through the months that they had lived together, they had learned how to read each other, but their link had become stronger since they had become intimate. Their physical proximity brought them the ability to comprehend one another better and most of time, they didn't even need words to make each other know what they needed.

As much as it hurt, Sherlock quickly found a comfortable rhythm, rocking his hips up and down as steady as he could. He listened to John's heavy breathing, holding onto that as a way to relax and feel safe. He lolled his head back, closing his eyes and marvelling at the feeling of John's hard flesh hitting his prostate over and over again. His hands wandered blindly, looking for something to hold on to as the new sensations started to overpower the initial pain. He felt John's fingers entwine with his, firm and steady.

The silence in the room was broken by a set of moans and ragged breathing. John was making such perfect noises; each and every one of them travelling through the air and landing on his hurting, hardening prick. He looked down again and as their eyes met. John bucked his hips up urgently and next thing he knew he was pulsing, releasing his creamy essence inside him, his face set in utter satisfaction and pleasure. Sherlock kissed him languidly on the lips, before moving to his chin, cheeks, temples and lids.

John's arms embraced him tenderly before he turned them around in the large wooden bed. He pressed Sherlock down on the mattress and started kissing his way down his torso, not stopping until he reached his groin. Sherlock felt John's tongue flick around the slit of his cock, inciting a low moan. He was so hard it was painful and when John took him in his mouth, it only took a couple of pulls for him to feel that wonderful, blinding sensation. His fingers tangled in John's golden hair as he came, pulling softly at the silky strands.

He laid there breathing deeply, appreciating the silence, the bliss, and the light touch of John's lips on his chest as he returned to his place next to Sherlock.

"Bonjour," John whispered against his neck, hot breath making chills rise on his skin.

"Bonjour, Jean" Sherlock answered lazily, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him tight so their lengths would be pressed from chest to shins.

"You alright?" the doctor in John seemed to have woken up as well. "Are you hurt?"

"Mm, not much. It's quite bearable, not to worry, John."

The good doctor nodded and nuzzled into Sherlock's chest. "I need a shower, a kiss, and a coffee."

Sherlock turned his head and kissed him, standing up almost immediately after. He walked to the bathroom, swaying his hips teasingly. "I'll go first. I can prepare you coffee as you bathe."

"Sounds like a neat plan," John turned in bed and pulled the duvet up to his neck. "Wake me up when you're finished, okay?" he murmured.

"So shall it be, my love," Sherlock came to a halt, his hand resting on the door handle as his words registered in his brain. He turned around to look at John, his eyes filled with fear, but the good doctor showed no signs of hearing Sherlock's words. His breathing was deep and his eyes closed. _My love… Oh John, why is it so hard to speak the heart's language? You seem to speak it so fluently, I find myself envying you._

Sherlock looked at John's sleeping figure once more before going closing the door behind him.

…

He sat at the table outside, sipping on his coffee as he silently watched John playing football with Pascal. The sun was high in the sky, marking yet another day of hope and hiding.

Mycroft still hadn't come up with a plan, which coming from him, was extremely aggravating to say the least. Sherlock had started to lose hope. He had started cursing the sheer feeling of hope, claiming that it was a cruel, deceiving feeling that would allow your heart to feel some peace when in the end there was never room for that. According to Sherlock, hope was vile and, now even more so, completely useless.

His train of thought was interrupted when a cool set of hands rested on his shoulders and a pair of soft lips pressed onto the top of his head. He tilted his head back, settling down in the valley of her breasts, closing his eyes to try to focus on something that wasn't how doomed they all were. Atandra kissed his forehead and looked back up at John and Pascal, who were now helping Shamine to pick up some flowers near the woods.

"He's handsome," AJ commented with a chuckle.

"You're married," Sherlock retorted, opening one eye to look up at her and tilting his head to spot John and the laughing kids. It was amazing how John seemed to bring happiness everywhere he went. "And I believe he lacks the physical aspect of your preference."

"Jealous much?" she laughed, starting to massage his shoulders. "That means nothing, though. According to Mycroft he switched teams for you."

"Wrong," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes again, relaxing to the touch. "He said he wasn't gay. Which is true."

Atandra looked at him for a moment, tipping her head. "No, sorry. I don't get it."

Sherlock allowed himself to laugh. "You're losing your touch, little sister."

"Shut up, you idiot. I'm losing nothing. I just don't know John enough to get your point."

"John said he wasn't gay, AJ, but he never said he was straight," he murmured, looking at John again. "I've only realized that recently. And I'm positive that he _knew_ what he was saying and the way he was saying it. He deserves more credit than what everyone gives him," he concluded, falling silent for a while. "Everyone including myself."

"You shouldn't be so scared of what you feel, Sherlock. Fear will eventually drive him away," she started massaging Sherlock's shoulders, up to his neck, ridding him of the tension.

He scoffed and shook his head. "No. I'm not afraid of what I feel. I'm afraid of what could happen once people know that the words have been said. Besides, I'm not even sure of what I feel, let alone telling him about it." Sherlock hissed as Atandra hit a particularly stiff muscle on the curve of Sherlock's neck. "_That_ was completely uncalled for!" he roared under his breath.

He heard the melodic sound of her laughter and he couldn't keep his own from rising up and escaping his lips.

"I like the new you," she said after a while, looking over at where John and Pascal were making a flower crown to adorn Shamine's ebony curls.

Sherlock remained quiet for a while, thinking about how wrong she was. How wrong everyone was about him and his new, more human side. How John appeared to have been Sherlock's salvation, how he had turned the machine into a person, defeating the heartless beast that everyone, including himself, believed him to be. He _knew_ that, whether he liked it or not, they were right. But that couldn't be. Not with Moriarty in their tails, not with his threats. Forget AJ and the kids. As he looked at John's peaceful smile as he sat on the grass, Shamine trying her new crown, Pascal tapping his foot on the grass and laughing at yet another joke that the ex-army doctor had said, Sherlock knew that his most powerful weapon was John. He was the reason behind Sherlock's will to fight. To have the chance to see his youthful smile, to hold those surprisingly soft and warm hands, to taste that _John_ flavour on his skin and lips, at least one more time. But he also knew his most powerful weapon was his deadliest weakness as well and, as always, Moriarty seemed to have figured it out even before he did so himself.

The name of Sebastian Moran, jerked him out of his thoughts. His attention was suddenly back to his sister and to the tale she was telling him about how he had found that she was working for the enemy. Sherlock only caught the end of the sentence, but he could pretty much piece the omitted part together.

"… only for a moment. So I excused myself and walked to my room. When I called Evy, everything was okay, but I still couldn't keep my voice neutral. She's my daughter, Sherlock, and I was concerned. You know I wouldn't jeopardize the operation if it weren't important, but my instincts spoke louder at the time," AJ paused, took a deep breath and sat down next to her brother, hiding her face in her hands. "It was only after I hung up that I heard the steps in the room. I heard the metallic click of the safety of the gun being deactivated and felt the cold metal touching my skin. And then I knew it was all lost."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he remembered the man in the hoodie from the Louvre. He was tall and well-built, a true walking wardrobe. What scared him most when he lost track of John at the museum was that Moran could easily punch the good doctor and knock him out unconscious. Sherlock sighed and looked up at his sister.

"Did you take out the tracking device he implanted on you?" he asked, eyeing the scar on her forearm.

"Better yet. I took it out and I implanted it on a truck that was on its way to Švenčionėliai," she smiled, broadly.

Sherlock laughed. "Lithuania? It could be worse, I believe," he smiled, closing his eyes and welcoming the warmth of the sun, so uncommonly warm for early January. In the south of France. In the countryside. "I have to go to him, AJ," he murmured, running a hand through his mussed curls.

She nodded, but said nothing. She only held his hand and then she let go of him and stood up to leave to return to her harp, Sherlock had a strip of paper in his hand. In Atandra's neat handwriting was written an address, and a meeting time, along with very few instructions. Sherlock didn't need to ask where it lead them. It was obvious that their final meeting would take place very soon. And only one could survive.

…

It was way after lunchtime when John decided to take a break and rest for a while. He sat down at the kitchen table and closed his eyes as he sipped on his warm coffee.

He adored Sherlock's niece and nephew. They were like a breath of fresh air in their rollercoaster of a life. And, of course, they were terrifyingly bright. Both of them. John found himself at loss of words when one of them answered a particularly intricate question, or when they resolved a problem with a much more effective solution that the one he had thought of at first, which somehow only made him feel more stupid and unworthy of his title as Sherlock's best friend and partner. But then he reminded himself that they worked so well together because when in the presence of the other, their minds worked as one, just like Shamine and Pascal seemed to do.

And that thought just brought back the memory that if they weren't in complete harmony with each other, there was a scary chance that they could both die. And Sherlock was still hiding something. John could feel it, sense it, just like he did when he foresaw the snow when he first kissed Sherlock. Just like he had sensed the danger when Sherlock had climbed into that cab the first night they met. But this time it was multiplied by a thousand. Because although they knew who they dealing with, they didn't know _what_ was the extent of the threat upon them.

Would Moriarty torture them? Would he torture Sherlock and kill John? Worse, would he torture John to death and make Sherlock watch? The possibilities were endless and when dealing with geniuses, John had learnt one important lesson: expect the unexpected. Just like when he was back in Afghanistan, but worse. Because then he only risked to lose his life – he had nothing to fight for anyway. But now he risked his life, and more importantly, his heart.

He let out a growl of frustration and cursed himself for lacking the massive IQ that seemed to run along the Holmes family. It would make everything so much easier. He would be able to keep up with the man's ingenious plans, or at least know when there was one. Keeping John in the dark seemed to be Sherlock's priority, but he has forgotten that John Watson was no fool. And better than anyone, he knew how Sherlock worked, how he thought, how he felt, for now the man didn't rely on his brains alone, and no one knew Sherlock's heart better than John. Not even Sherlock himself. If Sherlock could work out a plan without telling John about it, then John would certainly be able to work out a plan of his own, without letting Sherlock know about it. He just needed data._ I'm so fucked, _he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose.

John got up with a sigh and put his empty cup down in the sink. He looked outside to where the two children were carelessly playing near the pool. He couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it – Atandra's desire to form a family and to try to escape the apparent curse that seemed to haunt her brothers. John felt an enormous respect for the youngest Holmes. She had fought against her mother's repressive old-fashioned beliefs to risk a chance at being happy, not that that was serving her much. Where was the happiness in living hidden away to protect those who you fought so hard to keep by your side in the first place?

"John?" called Sherlock, a smile playing on his perfect, bow-shaped lips.

"Hm? What?"John turned off the tap he hadn't even realized he had turned on.

"You didn't need to do that, you know?" Sherlock motioned to the now spotless dishes. "You are a guest, after all."

John scowled and started to dry his hands on a tea towel. "I don't want to be a guest. Sherlock. I want to be furniture. Not a guest. I don't need any more formalities between us to pull us further apart.

Sherlock looked at him with a concerned gaze. "You're troubled with something."

"You don't _fucking_ say!"

"What is it this time?" Sherlock asked with an exaggerated eye roll.

"What is it every time? I fear for you, you imbecile! I have the feeling that I'm going to —" John stopped himself, putting down the towel and sighing heavily.

"Going to what?" the detective insisted, taking one step closer to John, looking him in the eyes..

"Fetch some fresh lemons," John smiled up at him, causing the other man to scowl. "I'm going to make the best goddamn lemonade you've ever had the pleasure to savour. Mark my words," he winked and gave a low chuckle as a response to Sherlock's puzzled look.

They made their way to the back garden door, John looked around, taking in the little flowers that sprinkled the green grass with colour, and the bright blue of the pool. He closed his eyes at the sound of the harp, under the old oak tree.

"Princess Shamine and Sir Pascal," John called with his most solemn look, capturing the kids' attention. "I plea for your help in the noblest mission since the crusades," he said, looking at the children. "You must help me to pick the greatest and most appealing lemons that you can possibly find in this land."

"Oh, God," Sherlock grumbled under his breath, sighing.

"Shush," John hissed back. "In light of these events, I shall persuade you by telling you that if we aren't able to accomplish this mission, then the powerful warlock, Sherlock, The Great…"

"Seriously?"

"…will deduce stuff about us until we're turned into toads," John continued, ignoring Sherlock's input.

The two kids stood up and quickly walked towards John, looking up at him with wide eyes. Shamine was the first to talk. "What's _persuade_?" the girl asked.

"And what's the crusades?" Pascal joined in, shrugging.

"Ask your uncle," John gently said, caressing Shamine's soft curls and patting the boy's arm.

"You had to, didn't you?" Sherlock jeered.

John ignored him once more, following the trio as Sherlock tried to explain in 'child language' the meaning of crusades and persuasion to the two kids. John laughed as he saw Sherlock's cheeks turning redder and redder as he tried to, unsuccessfully, find synonyms to conclude his brief lesson.

As they approached the lemon tree, he could see the children getting even more confused than they were before the genius started to 'educate' them.

Pascal had the not-so-brilliant idea of using Shamine's dress as a basket to put the fruit. Both Sherlock and John had lost themselves in conversation and when they looked again there were enough lemons in that 'basket' to make lemonade for a whole rugby team (reserves and all, included).

"That one is bigger. And that over there has a twin," said the girl, excitedly pointing out at the various big yellow bulbs. Pascal obediently grabbed them, carefully placing them on the dress.

"Jeez, that's about enough, don't you think?" John stepped forwards and steered Shamine away from the tree as the girl, still filled up with enthusiasm, kept making last-minute orders to her older brother. The boy tried to grab as much as he could, but some ended up falling to the ground as if they were crumbs of bread from the Hansel and Gretel story, marking the path to the lemon tree.

Just as promised, John did, indeed, make the best lemonade any of them ever had.

Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – actually asked to repeat his dose. Which John didn't hesitate in complying, as long as he could shove stuff down his throat.

No pun intended.

_Much_…

"John!" Shamine asked, jumping on him and kissing his cheek. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she giggled before letting go to grab Pascal's wrist, all but dragging him away from the kitchen.

The good doctor stood still for a couple of seconds, only to feel the warmth of Sherlock's chest pressing against his back as he washed the glasses. "Are you going to tell me?" John murmured, clearing his throat. "Or I'm going to have to repeat the same story about you withholding information, and me being cross, and all that jazz?"

Sherlock sighed, and stepped back, tapping his foot on the floor, impatiently. "John it's not—"

"Wrong. Try again," cut John.

"I think you shouldn't worry so mu—"

"Ha!" the ex-army-doctor laughed, shaking his head. "Come on. For a genius you're disappointingly slow," he rolled his eyes, grabbing the tea-cloth and starting to wipe the excess water from the glasses. "_Try_ _again_ means: I'm not buying your bullshit. So let's try again."

Sherlock looked at John for a long while, trying to read him, to find a way out. "Okay," he finally said. "You're right."

"Sorry, what?"

"You heard me perfectly, I'm not saying it again," Holmes muttered, turning his back and walking away.

"Where are you going?" John called after him, grabbing his wrist. "Don't do this to me. Please Sherlock. I want to know what I'm dealing with! For fuck's sake I _need_ to know what I'm going to face. You can't just—"

"John!" the consulting detective grabbed the smaller man's shoulders, looking at him in the eyes. "Just come with me," he instructed, spinning the blond around and steering him towards the stairs.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Bedroom."

"I'm not shagging you."

"We'll see," Sherlock chuckled. "We're just going to talk about the plan. Nothing else."

"You sure?"

"Hm, quite."

They entered the room and John sat on the bed as he watched Sherlock grab his laptop and start showing-off by typing at light-speed. "So, the plan?"

"Yes. What about it?"

_Close your eyes and count to ten. Don't punch him. Don't punch him. Don't punch him._

"You better start packing, though," Sherlock said after a while.

"No."

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm trying not to shoot you, Sherlock, and you are making it hard for me."

Sherlock slowly raised his eyes and looked deeply in John's. "Oh, really?" he purred.

The doctor furrowed his brows and tipped his head to the side, realization quickly catching up with him. "Oh, for god's— I meant _hard_ as in _difficult_. I'm still not shagging you. Actually, if I may say so, I am putting you on a hardcore sex hiatus. Unless you tell me what the hell is going on, you won't be having any. And by any I include intercourse, snogging, oral, and any kind of physical contact. If you touch me, I'll punch you. In the face. With a chair."

Sherlock seemed to consider that for a moment before he shrugged, obviously deciding that secrecy wasn't in any way near reason enough to give up John's touch. "That's blackmail."

"And that's not an answer."

"We're going to travel."

"I got that part, thank you. Where to?"

"Moriarty was planning on contacting me. According to AJ, he wanted to have a sort of final confrontation in order to sort our differences once and for all. Goodness knows he's rather the dramatic type—"

"Thank god you're not the sort," John murmured, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock scowled, but proceeded as if his companion hadn't said a word. "…and I believe that even after my sister's cover was found, he won't make a change of plans. Actually, I see Atandra's exposure as a blessing for him and his monkey friend."

"Moran?"

"No, Henry VIII," Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"Ha-ha. So very funny. So basically you're saying that the fact that Atandra was working for Mycroft is a way to make things easy for him?"

"He knew that she was going to tell me about his plan. What better way to pass on information?"

"Clever."

"I wouldn't expect any less of him," Sherlock smiled, clicking _enter_ on his laptop and leaning back on his chair.

"So where are we going?"

"Atandra gave me the address. Start packing, we leave tonight."

"That doesn't really answer my— tonight?" John stood up and walked towards the detective, looking at the laptop over the brunette's shoulder. He took a long look at the reservation on the screen and shook his head. "No."

"Yes."

"I don't approve of it," John insisted.

"You don't have to. It's his choice. We're meeting him there."

"No."

"Yes!"

"Seriously, though? Switzerland?"

Sherlock smirked and nodded. "Switzerland."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Hey guys. Guess what? I'm still alive! Innit good? I'm so very sorry for the delay (of something like what... five months or so?) and so on and so forth. I would make some sort of promise that next chapter will come sooner, but I would be lying because life is being a whore and getting in the way.

Thank you for all the alerts and the faves and reviews (specially those - they make me so happy *-*) and know that Foggy London is not abandoned. My tricky brain and RL are just being bitches at the time.

»Bloo«

P.S. I really love you and... stuff, kay? *puppy eyes*


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 – Tick, tock**

"Idiot."

"You're repeating yourself," John murmured, yawning. "I thought you didn't' like to repeat yourself."

"Moron," Sherlock mended.

"Nope. You said that one, too."

Sherlock glared daggers at John and grumbled as he put his bag on the foot of the king-size bed. "Acephalous imbecile," Sherlock tried again, looking back down at his bag.

"Yes, I agree. I couldn't agree more," he chuckled. "You can't have forgotten the code, Sherlock. Come on, you're the world's only consulting detective. One would think that you'd have enough brains to remember three numbers," John finished unpacking his bag and looked around at their hotel room. "It's quite chilly in here. Better ask for some extra blankets?"

Sherlock roared at the lock in his bag and tossed it aside, kicking it impatiently. "Oh, hell!"

"Yes, I'm glad you agree," John murmured, shaking his head. "Let me see that," he hummed, gently pushing Sherlock out of the way and kneeling down by the bag. After a couple of minutes, the lock made a pleasant _click_ and opened to reveal the content of Sherlock's bag. "Here, knock yourself out. I have a phone call to make."

Sherlock frowned, looking at the bag, then at John, and back at the bag. "I don't understand. You can't phone Harry. It's too dangerous for her," he said, looking at the bright 221 that was imprinted in golden letters on his lock.

"Yeah, well, unlike what you might think, I do know more people other than my own sister. I promised Lestrade I'd call him to know about his situation with his wife and so on."

"They're divorcing, John. Why is it any of _your_ concern?" Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation. At the disapproving look in John's eyes he lowered his hands again and cleared his throat. "Not good?"

"Very not good. He's a friend, Sherlock. He's in trouble, and he needs our support. That's what friends do. They are there for each other when the other is down. They share problems and joys alike."

"So you're going to tell him about Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Obviously not."

"Why? It's a problem that affects both of us. According to you, Lestrade is our friend, just like we are his. You just said that friends are there to listen to our problems. What am I missing then?"

"Oh Christ," he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "You're worse than kids, sometimes."

"I'm still waiting."

"Yes, Sherlock, Lestrade is our friend, but Moriarty doesn't concern him. Moriarty is our problem, not his."

"How is _his_ divorce any of our problem, then?"

"It's not our problem directly, but if it affects Greg, then—"

"I don't get it."

"Look, telling Greg about Moriarty is the same of putting him in the fire line. He doesn't need to know about it, because there is _nothing_ he can do to help us. Actually, it would only endanger him. So why should we do it? Whereas, with his divorce, there's actually something we can do. We can be there for him and try to make him feel better, because I know that it's hard to end a lifetime of marriage, even if one knows, for sure, that the relationship was over long before they decided to officially end it," John tried to explain as he fiddled with his mobile, his hands trembling slightly.

Sherlock stared at him but said nothing. For a moment they just looked at each other, Sherlock trying to understand the meaning of John's words and John trying very hard not to punch him.

"Okay, fine. Do it your way, then," Sherlock huffed, pouting. Then he started unpacking his bag, carefully arranging every item in a meticulous, near-obsessive way.

John sat down on the chair at the breakfast table and rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. Sherlock really could get to his nerves sometimes. "What is it now?"

"Nothing," the detective dismissively muttered, holding a pair of John's briefs and tossing them carelessly to his side of the bed.

The doctor closed his eyes. He counted to five, trying not to yell and scream like an enraged banshee before standing up, sliding in his coat and going for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out! I need to socialize with adults," and with that he slammed the door behind him, leaving a sulking Sherlock behind.

It had snowed the night before. The trip had been quieter and much smoother than it was supposed, mainly because Sherlock had been asleep most of the time. And the time he wasn't sleeping, he spent it in silence, thinking, the gears turning and turning and turning, never stopping as he tried to figure out a way to kill without be killed, or without harming John.

The doctor, however, seemed to have had some difficulty with the sitting down part. He trotted up and down the train, his head, much less used to heavy-thinking like Sherlock's, seemed to short-circuit every five minutes. The thoughts tangled, the plans started to overheat his system and then there he was again, standing up, going to the cafeteria and downing three coffees before being able to focus again. The cycle repeated all the way to Meiringen.

They stayed in a small, yet cosy pension, which they were able to afford at such short notice. The room had been a specially prepared honeymoon suite, the only one available at the time. And John couldn't really complain, of course, if it weren't for Sherlock's foul mood and his own fears of what could succeed from then on.

They were getting closer to Moriarty, and therefore, closer to the end. John's fears only grew. Sherlock's silence was doing nothing to ease his spirit and he knew, he just _knew_ that the consulting detective was planning something. And once again, not only was he hiding it from John, he was also leaving him behind on that plan. And once again, it only helped with John's uneasiness.

As he buttoned up his coat and tightened the red scarf around his neck, John strolled calmly through the snow coated streets, smiling to himself as he got to know this new town. He feasted his eyes with the images of the children he would never have playing with each other in a white garden at the back of his home in Sussex, where he would try his hand at gardening and Sherlock could become a beekeeper or something alike. Maybe they could start their own production of Honey. Give it a fancy name, export and live in the peace and quiet of the country.

What he didn't know at the moment, as he bent down to grab a fistful of snow and transform it into a ball, was that that dream wasn't never meant to be more than just that, a dream.

His feet travelled casually and automatically, here and there he could see the advertisements to the rich sights of nature nearby. The Reichenbach falls, not far from where they were, seemed to be a very popular place. He made a note to visit them later and to remember to bring his camera. Since he was in Switzerland, it was better that he took some profit of it and try to behave like a tourist instead of a man with a mission. His mission was lost.

Or maybe not. Only time would tell.

John stopped near a café, sitting down inside and using what little German he knew to order himself a black coffee. Then he sat down by the window and pulled out his mobile, checking for messages and for missed calls. One good thing about Carcassonne was the lack of reception. Those few days with Sherlock's family had been a true holiday. Sort of. And getting to know Sherlock's family had been a gift. Well, at least the part of the family that wasn't completely abnormal or tyrant.

Atandra was, much to John's surprise, a master at playing Pictionary. Not the drawing part. That was Sherlock's expertise. But the guessing? Oh, she was brilliant. Even the kids' interpretation on a palm tree (that Pascal drew with a vertical stick and three smaller ones at the top) and their mental image of a dog (which Shamine represented as a big, fat sausage with toothpicks everywhere) she was able to guess. Sherlock, however, had tried to guess the former as fireworks and the second as a 'barbecue party at John's sister.'

Anthea, or Evangeline, or whatever strikes your fancy, was actually a pretty good singer. And a goddamn colonel. It was hard to tell if she was talking to the kids or to AJ. Most of the times it was the latter. "Atandra June Holmes, eat your oatmeal!" Her cry of war was able to get everyone in line.

Well, everyone except obvious exceptions. John didn't fear Not-Anthea. She had kidnapped him, for heaven's sake. So no. He wouldn't lower his guard.

Sherlock seemed to hate her. And she didn't seem to fancy him either. So what happened?

Once John dared to ask AJ about it. The younger Holmes chuckled and shook her head. "That, you will have to ask to them. As far as I'm concerned, I'm as far from that tug of war as I am from Timbuktu," then she proceeded with not eating her porridge.

Back to the present, John sipped on his coffee, leaning back on his chair and eying the people outside, walking around with their lovers, their families, their friends, talking to each other and just seeming generally happy, despite of the weather and the cold that was much more suiting to the winter than the sun of southern France.

He twiddled his mobile in his hands and closed his eyes, sighing, Lestrade's number flashing in the screen, ready to make the call. After a second's hesitation, John finally pressed the button and led the mobile to his ear and waited as the everlasting toot of the waiting signal sounded in his ear.

"Hello?" the voice greeted. Lestrade sounded sleepy even though it was way past midday in England.

"Hey mate. It's me, John," the doctor cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone friendly and casual. "Sorry I've been quiet for so long. It's been crazy since the last time I saw you.

"Who is it?" John heard someone else ask in the other side, then the rustling of the sheets and the wet sound of a kiss.

"John! Oh, thanks God, I was getting worried," Lestrade said. Then the speaker was covered by Lestrade's hand, barely though, because he could still hear the rustling of sheets and a muffled murmur, "Go back to sleep, Mycroft, I'll be back in a mo."

John clasped his hand on his lips to keep himself from snorting. He chuckled silently before clearing his throat once more. "I'm sorry, is this a bad time? You sound… busy."

"Nah! Are you kidding? I've been waiting for news from you since I last saw you on the fifth. Where the hell have you guys been? Did you, by any chance, decidd to elope or something?"

John laughed lightly at that. "Yes! That was exactly what happened. And now Sherlock is pregnant. We're having our baby in Mars and call him Elvis, just because we can."

"I'm happy for you blokes. Can I be the godfather?"

"We were thinking of inviting Angelina and Brad, but I think they're busy recruiting more kids to their football team. The Pope is busy, too, so why the hell not?"

Greg cackled whole-heartedly and John could hear him flop down on the couch. "Christ, John, I've been really worried sick about you. Don't disappear like that again. Where are you?"

John bit his lower lip and sighed. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you. All I can say is that things are getting complicated."

"How complicated?"

"Anyway, how is your divorce going?" John asked, cutting Lestrade's input. _Sorry, old chap, it's for your own good._

The DI seemed to have understood John's distress, because he didn't push the issue. "Yeah, good. It's going good. I mean, she's not going to ask for full custody of the twins, which isn't bad at all. I dunno, mate. We'll see."

"I'm sure you'll manage to get a good deal with the girls. They love you far too much not to see you. If Olivia is a reasonable woman, which I believe she is, then she won't do that to you."

"And yet she's asking for the house, the car, the dog and half my earnings for the time we shared our lives together," Lestrade chuckled.

"Ouch," John pouted, gnawing on his lip again. "Well, you know that whatever you need, you can count on Sherlock and me, right?"

"Yeah, John. Ta. Really," Greg sighed. Then there was a long pause where none said anything. Both were too entwined in their heads to think about anything else to say. After what seemed like forever, Lestrade spoke again. "Look, John, are you sure you don't need anything?"

The ex-army-doctor looked at the street and licked his lips, breathing in deeply and nodding, even though his friend couldn't see the gesture. "Yeah. Actually, there is something."

"Good, great. I'll do anything," John heard shifting and noticed Lestrade's had sat up on the couch as if it helped him focus on John's words. "What is it?"

"I need your help with something," John started, drumming his fingers on the table. "Actually, with someone."

"And that is?"

"Sherlock."

…

"Where is it?"

Whatever items of clothing Sherlock had so carefully unpacked not two hours earlier, were now sprawled all over their honeymoon suite floor. The detective tossed everything upside down and growled in frustration. Then he sat down on the floor, next to the bed and leant back against it.

Not two seconds later, he heard the sound of the magnetic key on the door and John swiping his feet on the mat before getting in. Sherlock didn't look up, listening to John's actions through his steps. As soon as the doctor got in he stopped on his tracks, trying to gather what kind of natural disaster had attacked their room during his absence.

"Hurricane Sherlock," John murmured, jumping from piece to piece of visible carpet.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock grumbled.

"The clothes are lava," John answered, dancing between Sherlock's shirts, socks and pants until he reached the man. He sat down next to him and looked around. "I survived!"

Sherlock chuckled at John's enthusiasm and looked at him, who was still looking at the chaotic room. "You're not cross?"

"Of course not! If you ask me, I rather see your clothes all over the floor than on you. Besides, I'm fine with it. I'm not the one who's going to tidy this up, so, no problemo."

Sherlock groaned and let his head fall to the mattress, his dark mood sinking again. "I can't find it, John," Sherlock moaned. "Where did I put it?"

"What? Maybe I can help you?"

"No. You don't know what it is," Holmes pouted.

"But if you describe 'it' to me, maybe I could—"

"No, John! Leave it!" Sherlock snapped, burying his piercing blue eyes in John's with suck a ferocity the doctor actually recoiled in his seat.

"Okay. Fine. I just wanted to help. Christ," John shook his head and made to stand up, but Sherlock caught his wrist.

"I apologise," he murmured, his eyes softer than before. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's okay. I'll make us some tea, okay?" John bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead before moving to the kettle and filling it up. "Start tidying everything up, young man. I'm not telling you twice."

Sherlock huffed out a groan but complied, standing and putting everything in its place. By the time he had finished, John had already made their tea and was now sitting at the breakfast table, looking at the golden liquid. The young genius sat in front of him, grabbing the cup with both hands and warming himself up by gulping the warm juice.

"You're thinking," Sherlock stated.

"Hmm, yes. I do that sometimes, deal with it."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Your brother is sleeping with Lestrade."

Sherlock's tea left through his nostrils as he coughed to try to regain his breath. John remained placid, looking at the room, pensively. When Sherlock seemed to have regained his breath and his equanimity, he cleared his throat and looked up at his friend. "H-how? Why?"

John smirked. "I heard them when I called Greg earlier. He says hi, by the way."

Sherlock nodded and looked nervously around, as if looking for some new subject to talk about that didn't bring to him the image of his brother and the man he nearly considered his father naked in the same bed. "This tea is dreadful," he spat out of better ideas.

"Yes, it is, innit? Tastes like dirt," John agreed, frowning. Then he looked up at Sherlock and smiled. "I've been around town today—"

"I know."

"Shush. Stop being an arse and let me talk. As I was saying I was in town today, stopped by a little touristic site and got some pamphlets. We should visit stuff in here. I heard the falls are pretty."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. The falls are out of question," he said firmly.

"Oh, come on! Why?"

"Because… I say so."

There was a pause, while Sherlock looked at his hands and John tried to deduce the shit out of Sherlock. No shits were found.

"Oh," the doctor murmured. "I see."

"You do? What do you see?" Sherlock asked in panic.

"You're afraid of heights."

Holmes seemed taken aback with that ridiculous deduction. They had jumped through rooftops in order to catch a murderous cabbie. Heights were the least of his concerns. "Yes. I'm sorry, John. Terrified. I can't even think, it's paralyzing."

"Good. Okay. We'll stay here then. I'm sure there are stuff that we can do in the warmth and comfort of our honeymoon suite."

Sherlock observed as John shrugged and yawned lightly, then he mimicked the doctor's yawn and sipped on his tea again. The trip had worn them both to the core, what kept them going was the adrenaline. But at that moment, when the two of them were relaxed, sipping on their tea and just enjoying each other's company, the exhaustion started to take the lead over their excitement.

"I'm going to have a shower," John announced, standing up and shrugging off his jacket and scarf.

Sherlock looked at him and nodded, smiling, casually downing the rest of his tea until John disappeared through the bathroom's door. As soon as the door clicked shut, Sherlock sprung from his chair and returned to his precious task of looking for his lost belonging. This time he even ventured to look through John's things.

Zilch.

The strip of paper with the time and place of meeting that AJ had given to him was gone. And the meeting was on the next day. Sherlock cursed himself for forgetting to type it down somewhere else. Worse, if that strip of paper had gotten to the wrong hands, everything would be lost. Whoever found it, he hoped they would have the decency of putting it away. Otherwise John and himself faced their death.

The scent of shampoo and the warmth of the steam woke him up to reality again, his eyes darting to the bathroom where John brushed his teeth in nothing but a towel.

Thirty-three years of denying his body the pleasures of sex and now, at thirty-four, he could swear he was getting addicted, not to sex, but to sex with John. Yes, it was something that could make him forget of nearly everything. His eyes met John's through the fogged mirror and John smiled, washing his mouth before putting the toothbrush away.

"Liking what you see?"

"No."

"Hmm, let me guess, too much clothing?"

Sherlock laughed and stepped to the bathroom wrapping his arms around John's torso from behind and looking at him through the mirror. "I'm scared, John," he murmured. "I am scared of losing you."

John nodded at him, one hand reaching back and resting on the nape of the taller man's neck. Then he brought him down into a slow and loving kiss, his fingers softly playing with the curls of his ebony hair. "It's okay," John assured, smiling. "I'm right here. I am going nowhere."

Sherlock mirrored John's smile and closed his eyes, burying his nose in John's damp hair, inhaling deeply and humming in contentment. "Lie down with me?" he asked in a murmur.

"Of course," John disentangled himself from Sherlock's long arms and let the towel fall to the floor, laying down on the soft covers of the bed.

Sherlock, too, got rid of every single item of clothing and took his place next to John, turning to look at him in the eyes. His long fingers brushed softly on the new scar on John's arm, the skin rising in goosebumps at his caress.

John smiled, his eyes closing for a moment. "I'm happy," he uttered, licking his lips. "I'm happy like this, Sherlock. You make me happy."

The words seemed to reach a special place in the detective's heart. He grinned at his companion, lips pecking lips. "You do, too."

"Sherlock—"

"Tell me about you, John."

The request seemed to have caught John off guard. "S-sorry, what?"

"Tell me about you," Sherlock repeated.

"You don't need me to tell you about me. You know about me. You can read it all in my everything."

"Yes and no. I can only read the readable. I can't deduce without data."

"And?"

"You're naked."

"So very observant of you, Holmes."

"What I mean is that I already deduced what I could from your naked body, John. I want to know about you; your childhood, your relationship with your parents, and so on."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to be the one who knows me best and who I know best as well," Sherlock swallowed dryly and closed his eyes.

John remained quiet for a moment and then he turned in bed, pulling Sherlock closer so the latter would rest his head on John's chest. Sherlock smiled, listening to the steady thumping of John's heart against his ribs.

"I wasn't born in England," the doctor started, closing his eyes.

"Scotland?"

"Yes. My parents were in my grandmother's home because my grandpa Hamish was sick. My mum ended up getting pregnant and we were born in Aberdeen."

"We?"

"Harry and I," John said smirking.

Sherlock looked up, frowning. "What do you mean? Isn't Harry older?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, thirteen minutes or so. Anyway, I remember that grandma Cecilia was—"

"Wait, twins? Harry is your twin?"

"Sherlock, will you let me finish?"

The consulting detective huffed and nodded. John chuckled and cleared his throat. "Grandma Cecilia was a baker. She had a bakery in the heart of the city. After my grandfather died, it was everything she had left, my parents ended up moving back to England. So I was raised between Aberdeen and London. Every summer I used to go to my grandma's and help her out in the bakery."

"That's why baking the biscuits was so important to you?" Sherlock snuggled closer and kissed John's chest, lovingly.

"Yep," the doctor started to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "I learnt how to cook and how to bake with her. Once I started improvising and created a sort of mini pie with all kinds of different jam. Fig, strawberry, peach, blueberry, tomato… you name it. It was a success. Grandma used to say that I should be a baker when I grew up and I honest to god wanted to. She was to leave the bakery to me after she died."

"What happened?"

"Harry came out," John chuckled. "My grandmother was raised with very strict and conservative habits, so she didn't take it well. When I backed up my sister she cut the relationship with us."

"How did your parents take it?"

"Pretty well. My mother, grandma Cecilia's daughter, she was good with it. She just wanted us to be happy, you know? My father took it a bit harsher, but after a thorough talk, he ended up accepting it."

"How did they die?"

John paused before answering. Sherlock wanted to know him and that was great, but there were things that still stung. "They… um…" he breathed in deeply. "We had just turned eighteen, Harry and me, when we were at school and someone called us to the headmaster's office. He had said that early that morning there had been a bomb threat at the bank where my mother worked. You see, my father insisted in taking her to work every day and have breakfast at the bank's café," John's voice grew quieter. "Unfortunately the threat was real. The only survivor was a middle-aged man, Mr Carlton, that was inside the strongbox at the time of the explosion."

Sherlock didn't know he had stopped breathing until his lungs started to crave for oxygen. His arms wrapped tightly around John. "I'm sorry," he whispered, kissing John's chest once more. "I'm so sorry."

John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, fingers softly massaging his scalp. "It's okay, love. It was ages ago. I'm fine now."

Sherlock licked his lips and nodded, looking up at John. "You're very brave, John."

"I'm just very stupid, Sherlock, not brave. After my parents' death I had nowhere else to go, so I became a doctor and enlisted in the army. The rest you already know. I went to war, I saved lives, I took lives and I almost died. Then I met you and now here we are."

"And you're happy."

"Yes and no."

"Explain."

"I will only be truly happy when we get rid of this constant threat. It's like a ghost that doesn't want us to move on. I will only be happy when I manage to assure that you'll be okay."

Sherlock looked up at John and nodded again his lips meeting the army-doctor's and his hand cupping John's cheek. Their legs entwined as Sherlock propped himself up to reach him better. His long, spidery fingers started to map John's skin, the soft bumps of the muscles on his chest and down to his stomach.

John smiled against Sherlock's lips, humming lightly. The latter travelled his fingers to the small of John's back, pulling him closer and descending his hand to the back of the doctor's thigh. Contented at John's moan of satisfaction, Sherlock parted away from the kiss and smirked. John parted his legs and Sherlock rolled until he was on top of him, kissing his chest leisurely.

"You're beautiful," said he, nibbling on the skin of John's collarbone, grinding his hips down against the other.

"Ah, you should see me at eighteen," the ex-soldier chuckled. "I was foxy and fucking handsome."

"And unscarred."

"Exactly."

"I prefer the 'now' you, thank you very much," Sherlock sunk his teeth on John's chest, making the other man moan and arch his back. In response, Sherlock rolled his hips against John's again. "Oh, Christ."

John laughed, tugging Sherlock's curls gently. "Kiss me you idiot."

He didn't need to be asked twice. He started kissing down John's chest, tongue lapping and tasting and making sure it covered every square-inch of John's skin.

"I meant on the lips," he laughed, lolling his head back, enjoying Sherlock's enthusiasm. His lips quickly turned from smiley and happy to an 'O' of pure pleasure.

Sherlock's eyes were pinned in John's features, his hands working steadily on John's erection as his lips pecked the inside of his thighs. "I know what you meant. I didn't agree with it. I'm doing it my way."

"Y-your point h-has been – oh god – made," Watson's hips started to push towards Sherlock's hands, looking for more, hand fisting the cotton sheets beneath him. "Fuck, Sherlock!"

The yell came just as Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head of John's cock. "Cursing already?"

"Fuck you," John hissed, gasping as Sherlock's tongue worked from the base to the tip of John's shaft.

"You taste so good," he purred.

"What am I, a fucking ice-cream?" John scolded half-heartedly.

"You should shush now."

"Make me."

Sherlock took the invitation and plunged John's cock into his mouth, sucking him slowly and deeply, eyes locked on John's features the whole time. That seemed to do the trick, though. Each and every word the doctor tried to let out came in an incoherent and erotic moan. Mission accomplished in Sherlock's part. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on pleasuring John.

Sherlock's hips were rutting against the bed, trying to get any kind of friction. John's hand tightened in his curls and Sherlock knew that he would be close. He focused and forced his throat to relax, fighting his gag reflex and making John sink deeply inside his mouth. He moaned deeply, letting the vibrations of his baritone run through John's length right before he felt him hit the back of his throat.

"Holy fucking fuck, Sherlock," John hoarsely called, nearly rolling his eyes to the back of his head. "Sher—oh goodness!"

Sherlock pulled back, earning a stream of cussing from John. He silenced him by going back up and crushing their lips together, his kiss needy, desperate as if it was their last. Suddenly reality was sinking in. If things went wrong in the next day, that could be the last time he would ever kiss John or make love to him. In the spark of emotion, Sherlock let out a dry sob.

John's eyes snapped open and he looked at his lover, hand urgently cupping Sherlock's sharp cheek. "Oh God, Sherlock what is it? Did I hurt you? I'm sorry. I'm so s—"

Sherlock's lips were already working over John's again, his body pressed flushed against the smaller man's as he tried hard not to lose his ground. "John I want it," he muttered when they parted. "I want it."

"Hey, it's okay. Tell me, love. What is it you want?" John hummed, looking in Sherlock's deep blue eyes.

"I want to make love to you, John, please. Please," the younger man pleaded, hiding his face on the crook of John's neck.

"I thought that's what we were doing," John tried to contain the smile that appeared on his lips as Sherlock mentioned their lovemaking instead of fucking. There was some improvement, at least. "Lie on your back," he muttered, kissing Sherlock's cheek, tenderly.

"No."

"What?"

"I don't think you get it, John. I want to make love to you. As in… be inside you. I want to top."

There was a moment of silence where Sherlock and John just stared at each other, lost in each other's gaze. Then John grinned and nodded. "Yes. Oh, god, yes, Sherlock," John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and brought him down into a deep kiss.

Sherlock smiled and reached out to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer. He looked at John and kissed his lips; going down again, the kisses and pecks he pressed all over John's skin showed now a new kind of urgency, almost as if he wasn't nervous for the act itself but to whatever would come after it.

John reached for a pillow and placed it under his hips. It had been a rather long while since he had done this. Last time he was in Afghanistan. And as people know War is like Las Vegas. What happens at War stays at War. John hadn't bottomed in a while so he was feeling rather on edge, luckily for him, though, he was in good hands. If there was someone in whom he could trust, that someone was Sherlock. Besides, with the amount of action they had been having lately, he was sure that his partner was accustomed to the steps. And everyone knows that Sherlock's a fast learner.

Sherlock coated his fingers with a generous layer of lubricant, wanting it to be as smooth as possible for John. His long finger circled around the tight ring of muscle of John's entrance, earning a groan of encouragement from above. Feeling a new boost of confidence, Sherlock slid his finger inside John's tightness, the man gasping as his hips parted wider for the detective.

"So tight, John," Sherlock breathed, kissing John's thigh, soothingly. "Are you okay?"

"Wait till you feel it with your dick," John chuckled as Sherlock started moving his finger inside him. "Yes. Yes, love, don't hold back."

"I don't intend to," his finger twisted pleasantly inside John and he smiled as the doctor writhed beneath him. After a moment of thrusting and kissing, Sherlock slid in the second finger, watching closely as John lost himself in his touches. He didn't want to lose that. John's noises, calling for him. For Sherlock. Who had never had anyone that had wanted him like that. Who had never wanted anyone as he wanted John. Sherlock. Who before John, judged himself to be a machine.

Tick, tock.

John screamed his name as Sherlock found his prostate.

Tick, tock.

Sherlock slid in a third finger, feeling John's muscles clenching and relaxing around him.

Tick, tock.

"Fuck Sherlock, please. I need you inside me. Please, love. I'm yours. Make me yours, Sherlock."

Tick, tock.

Sherlock eased himself inside John, gasping loudly as the tight muscles clenched around him.

Tick, tock.

John yelped as Sherlock started to move, slowly at first but then faster, his eyes always pinned on John's as if afraid to lose a twitch of an eyebrow or the quirk of his lip.

Tick, tock.

John's nails dug into Sherlock's back, his body moving in tempo with Sherlock's as he thrust inside him, finding the right angle and making John writhe underneath him. "Yes! Oh, fuck, Sherlock!"

Tick, tock.

Sherlock placed open-mouthed kisses on John's lips, clumsily but surely. His hands trembled as he sustained his weight, not to crush his lover.

Tick…

"John," Sherlock groaned aloud, quickening his rhythm. "Ah, Christ, John. Yes!" Sherlock's eyes welled up, the sentiment and intimacy taking over his emotional system, and for the first time, Sherlock didn't mind.

Tock…

John bit his lip as Sherlock quickened his tempo and everything seemed to have wiped out of his logic system. Sherlock was claiming him, just like he had done so many times before, yet now, _now_, having Sherlock so close and willing, felt a thousand times better than when it was done the other way around. "So close. God, I'm so… Oh fuck!"

Tick…

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's cock and stroked him in earnest, his curls damp with sweat, bouncing between them as Sherlock kissed John's neck, sucking a deep-red mark.

Tock…

John let out a yelp, legs wrapping around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer, deeper, feeling him hit his depths as his hand pumped him vigorously. "Ah fuck, yes, Sherlock!" he moaned as Sherlock sucked on John's neck, marking him as his. "Don't stop— God! I love you, Sherlock!"

And the clockwork detective was dead. The man finally won against the machine and Sherlock was free. Free from what he had judged himself to be. Free from his own bindings. John had set him free.

He let the tears spill as John arched his back, Sherlock's ministrations pushing the doctor over the edge. He milked John through his orgasm, following right away, coming copiously inside his warmth. He let out a deep, cavernous moan and collapsed on top of his lover, hiding his face on John's neck. He just laid there for a while, digesting all the new sensations and the words John had spoken.

John had said it. He finally said it. And now what was he to do? Should he say it back? Should he remain quiet? What if he didn't make it through the final confrontation with Moriarty? John would suffer double if he left him, right?

The turmoil of Sherlock's thoughts seemed to have been quite transparent to John, because he was now embracing him as sweetly and lovingly as ever, his eyes still closed and his voice calm and collected even if a little breathless.

"It's okay, Sherlock," he whispered, a clear smile audible in his words. "It's all fine. You don't need to."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and nodded. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you John."

"Shh," John kissed Sherlock's head again. "You're beautiful. And brilliant. And amazing," he laughed lightly. "And yes. You make me happy."

Sherlock smiled and looked up at John, kissing his lips. "I'm exhausted," he hummed, rolling off John and laying beside him, holding his hand and intertwining their fingers.

"Shall we go to sleep, then?" John murmured, caressing Sherlock's cheek. "Tomorrow's a big day."

Sherlock froze. "What do you mean?"

"We're going sightseeing, Sherlock. I want to know the town," John yawned, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's hand.

The latter smiled, brushing the blonde's fringe away from his forehead. He didn't want to go to sleep. He wanted to stay there and look at John, pay attention to every move, every breath. He didn't want to miss the possible last hours he had with him. And the thought made his chest clench.

"Rest," he whispered, pulling the covers up to cover their naked bodies. "Sleep. Tomorrow's a big day," Sherlock confirmed.

"Is it?"

"Yes, John. We're going to stroll around the town."

"Sightseeing?"

"Yes, love. Sightseeing."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"What for?"

"Sightseeing."

…

The night passed quickly. Too quickly to his liking. He disentangled himself from his lover's hold and smiled, kissing his lips just as the sun kissed his cheeks, turning them deliciously rosy.

He quietly stood up and walked to the breakfast table, pulling out a pen and paper and writing down a note. Then he put them down on the pillow he had just vacated and took off Mycroft's dog tags from around his neck to place them over the note.

He then started to pull on his trousers and whatnot, sliding in his coat and wrapping his warm scarf around his neck.

With a clench in his heart and fighting the will to cry, he bent down, running his fingers through the sleeping man's head. "Goodbye, my love," he whispered before turning his back, before he could regret it, before he just snapped and sent everything to hell with a huge 'Sod this. Sod Moriarty. Let's go back to London and just take our chances. I don't want to lose you, but I prefer to lose you later than sooner.'

He left the room and closed his eyes, his face adopting a blank expression as he made his way to the cold street. He looked at the few people who dared to show up so early in the morning and they, too, regarded him with the same pitiful expression, but he wasn't going to back down now. In his pocket, his fingers fiddled with the stripe of paper where the meeting point and the hour were written down in AJ's neat handwriting. It hadn't been hard, after all. All he had to do was to look in the right place. Looking at the paper again and then glancing at his clock, he slid the info back in his coat's pocket and quickened his stride.

Sightseeing. He wasn't going to meet the most dangerous criminal mastermind to ever step on earth. He was sightseeing. That had been their promise the night before.

As he reached mark of the beginning of his walk to his final destination, he looked back, thinking twice. He was sure of his decision. It was the only way of keeping the one he loved safe. And people do silly things for love, don't they? Why should he be any different?

Nodding do himself, he started to climb his way to their meeting point. The falls were closed to the public because of the snow, and getting up there, as it were proving, was hard and dangerous. Yet, he knew that Moriarty would be there, waiting, probably armed to his teeth. But it was a risk he had to take if he wanted to guarantee the survival of him who had taken ownership of his beating heart. He had said his goodbyes. Now he would face his destiny as fearlessly as he had faced every single one of his enemies to the date.

Though, now, he had a good reason to do it.

…

He was cold. His body was shivering as his hand blindly looked for the source of heat that had kept him warm before. The sheets were cold, which meant that their occupant was long gone.

With a grumble and a stream of incoherent words, he travelled his hand up higher until he heard the chime of metal. Dog tags? He opened his eyes and was greeted by the direct light of the sun. Then he sat up, his own dog tags clinking annoyingly in his chest. Then he yawned and looked around. His coat wasn't on the rack and his scarf wasn't in its place either. On the pillow there was a note, but his morning eyes were still too lazy to make out any type of lettering.

Groaning again, he looked down at himself and sighed. What he needed was a shower to wake up. Then he could worry about whatever. His system was taking longer than usual to fire up, but he always got a little dazed after the best sex of his life, that considering their new arrangements… was always.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the hot tap, deciding that scalding water would be the quickest way to lose all his skin. After stepping out and wrapping a towel around his hips, he walked back to the room and sat back on the bed, feeling the smooth sheets and the scent of sex. He could get used to that.

Then he remembered the note and dog tags. With another grumble he reached back and held the note in his hands, trying to focus on the letters. He should get his sight tested.

After a lot of struggle, he managed to focus on the words. Though in that moment, he wished he hadn't been able to.

Looking around he took in every detail, trying to understand what had happened. Then he read the note again.

Blasted morning dizziness! Everything would be so much better if he were able to wake up and fire up like a computer!

_Good Morning, my love,_

_I went sightseeing. I'm sorry if I didn't wait for you but Meiringen was calling so loudly it was impossible for me not to listen._

_There's tea on your cup, but I suspect it'll taste just as awful as it did yesterday._

_I hope to be back soon. If not, then it's because I decided to make Meiringen my new, permanent home. Sorry for the short notice, but I believe you'll need a new flatmate, now. I just hope he's good with the shopping business._

_I've got to go now, but I want you to know that, no matter what I'll be always very sincerely yours._

_Mind. Body. And Soul._

_Love,_

_Your Idiot._

He looked at the cup. Standing up he held it between his hands and noticed, much to his dismay, that the liquid was as cold as the other side of the bed. What was going on?

…

Oh, finally he got to the top. Who was the perfect idiotic moron that decided to make the top of the Reichenbach falls in the top of the top of a top top top?

Just as he suspected, he wouldn't be alone once he got there. Right in front of him, wearing an impeccable tan-coloured suit and dark-brown parka was the lean figure of one James Moriarty.

His hairs stood on end, but he forced his expression to be blank as he slowly got closer. For a moment no words were uttered. Nothing sounded but the water falling down below and the soft crunching of the snow beneath his feet as he walked closer to the man, who had his back turned to him.

Finally, Moriarty spoke.

"Well, you took your time, my dear," he said in his usual sing-song voice, hands deeply buried inside his coat's pockets. "I would apologise for the dreadful weather, but… It's one of the very few things that's not in my reach."

He waited in silence, eyes carefully watching the water running down the edge and hitting the rocks at the bottom. A smile spread on his lips.

"You know your problem, Sherlock?" Moriarty chimed. "The problem is that pet of yours turned you far, too human. I mean, risk it all in the name of love and family? Oh I have to confess that I liked the touch with the surprise sister. Mmh, very well done. A standing ovation," Moriarty sighed and shook his head in disappointment. "It is, however, just plain BORING!" he shouted, spreading his arms as his voice half-echoed through the heavy noise of the water.

He smiled and adjusted his scarf on his neck before sighing. He kept his eyes on Moriarty's back. It would be easy, so very easy to just push him over the edge.

"You know what? I'm tired. You were fun, for a while. The way you danced? Ooh, Sherlock it was such a turn-on! I really nearly got a boner every time we played our games. Does your little pet know that you're here?" Moriarty chuckled and turned around to face him, his eyes widening and his smile falling. "Oh, I see how this is going to be, then."

"I suppose this is quite a turn up, isn't it, Jim?"

"Quite so," Moriarty snarled, getting closer and stopping not three inches away from him. "Hello, Johnny Boy."


End file.
